


Then and There

by boughofawillowtree



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Based on a fic, Chains, Crossover, Dark!Aziraphale, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, M/M, Serious Injuries, Strappado, dark!Gabriel, fanfic of a fanfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:02:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boughofawillowtree/pseuds/boughofawillowtree
Summary: This is a crossover fic for the two epics by @dreamsofspike,RepossessionandDescent Into Perdition.Repossession's Gabriel - a successful Archangel who has recently achieved near total control of the captive demon Crowley - swaps places withDescent Into Perdition's Gabriel - a failed Archangel who has recently come under the near total control of the angel Aziraphale.
Comments: 206
Kudos: 121
Collections: DiP-Repo-verse Crossover Works, Repossession Fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dreamsofspike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Repossession](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19710115) by [dreamsofspike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike). 
  * Inspired by [Descent Into Perdition](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23887096) by [dreamsofspike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofspike/pseuds/dreamsofspike). 



> This fic was brainstormed, cheered on by, and is dedicated to the awesome folks over in the [Repossessed server](https://discord.gg/EMHkr4XBHB). If you're a fan of Good Omens whump in this vein, come hang out! 
> 
> Huge thanks to @mevima for letting me crib that awesome first line from [Paradigm Shift](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27542191?view_adult=true).

There is a shiver in the fabric of the universe.

Gabriel finds himself in a strange room, one more like a dungeon cell than the storeroom of an old bookshop.

And there, for reasons Gabriel couldn’t begin to piece together, was the demon Crowley - his wrists chained behind his back and then to a bar near the ceiling, forcing him to hang in a position Gabriel knew would be excruciating. Crowley was naked, and Gabriel could see deep purple bruising along his shoulders and down his back. His wings were out, looking like so much dead weight and only adding to the agony he must be in.

Moved by panicked empathy, Gabriel rushed toward the demon. He took hold of Crowley at the waist, just below his ribs - which were visible, he noted - and lifted him up, taking the stress and strain off his shoulders.

Crowley barely reacted, only giving a shuddering exhale of relief. He did not look up, but kept his neck bowed, his chin lolling on his chest as Gabriel held him.

“What’s happened? Did...did he do this?”

On the one hand, Gabriel could hardly believe Aziraphale would stoop to torturing Crowley - his  _ husband _ , the one person he seemed intent on protecting and keeping close. Then again, Gabriel was well familiar with the depths of depravity Aziraphale was capable of, and part of him was unsurprised to find that Aziraphale treated all he considered “his” in the same way.

Crowley gave no answer. Gabriel tried to slow his racing thoughts and figure out how to proceed. He could see the manacles holding Crowley’s wrists and thought the first order of business might be to let Crowley down - but then again, if Aziraphale had done this, he would be terribly upset at Gabriel for undoing it, and it might just make everything worse.

“Where is he?” Gabriel tried to ask his question as gently as possible, but his agitation must have still been evident in his voice, because Crowley winced and stiffened, almost as if he meant to pull away from Gabriel despite the movement causing what must have been a mind-crushing wave of pain. “Is he coming back?”

Crowley did something that Gabriel thought might have been a tiny shake of his head. The archangel decided to take that as an answer, and so he reached up to unfasten the bindings around Crowley’s wrists. He was still able to hold Crowley up with one hand as he worked - the demon was light, concerningly so. Crowley never looked this frail and emaciated when Gabriel saw him in the bookshop, but then again, he was always dressed. Was Aziraphale starving him, or something worse? Could you even starve a demon?

Gabriel meant to lower Crowley gently to the floor, but as soon as the chains were undone, Crowley collapsed, going down hard on his knees with a sound of bone hitting stone that made Gabriel wince. He knew what it was like to kneel for the angel, but only on the thick rugs of the bookshop.

It occurred to Gabriel now that the rugs were for soundproofing, and not any mercy on Aziraphale’s part. Clearly, when he had nothing to hide - when his victim had no concerned party who might be listening - he dispensed with such things.

Once on the floor, Crowley pulled his battered body into some kind of penitent position, his back bent, his face pressed to the stone. It was clear he was trying to arrange his arms somehow, but the ruined muscles wouldn’t allow it, and they only twitched and dragged pathetically as he attempted to move them.

Gabriel knelt down beside the demon, wondering whether he should try to touch him, or heal him, or whether he would just do more damage at this point. He now saw that Crowley wore some kind of metal collar around his neck, which reminded Gabriel in some strange way of the watch around his own wrist.

But - he noticed now, for the first time - he wasn’t wearing the watch.

Not only that, but he was wearing one of his old suits, a sharp one in sharkskin gray, one of his former favorites.

Terror shot through him then, as he took in the sight of his own wrist, encircled not by Aziraphale’s watch but by a well-starched cuff with mother-of-pearl buttons.

He wanted to get up and run, to leave this awful place, to rip this suit off himself, to find Aziraphale and immediately atone, to pretend he’d never seen the demon strung up like this.

_ Of course you would, you selfish coward. That’s exactly what he sees in you - you don’t care about anyone but yourself.  _

He couldn’t leave Crowley, not like this. But he also couldn’t put them both in danger by trying to defy or outmaneuver Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” Gabriel whispered. “Where is he? Aziraphale? Is he coming back?”

Crowley only pushed his face harder against the floor.

Gabriel felt his own desperation rise. He needed to know what was going on.

“What happened? Why did he do this to you?”

Crowley made a groaning noise then, some kind of murmur.

Gabriel leaned in closer, his face almost on the stone as well, so he could hear whatever it was Crowley was trying to say. 

“Just do it,” Crowley choked out. 

“What?”

“Whatever you’re going to do,” Crowley hissed.

Shame and anger flooded through Gabriel. Of course Crowley would blame him for “seducing” Aziraphale, for somehow causing Aziraphale to cheat with him. “I’m trying to help you,” he said.

Crowley made a strange noise then, something between a laugh and a sob.

“Can I heal you?” Gabriel rested a hand on one of Crowley’s shoulders. The flesh was hot to the touch, black and blue with angry swelling underneath.

“As you please, Master,” Crowley mumbled.

Startled, Gabriel yanked his hand back. Did Crowley think he was Aziraphale?

Or...was this some kind of trap?

Had Crowley and Aziraphale conspired to test him, somehow? To see whether he would allow himself to be called Master, whether he would willingly take back power and status when the opportunity arose?

Cold fear ran through his veins as he looked around nervously. He felt disoriented, confused. And, despite the fact that he was somehow back in one of his old suits, completely exposed. It was as if Aziraphale was watching him, his blue eyes ever-present and invisible. 

Well, if this was a test, he would have to pass it. There was no other option.

He took off the suit jacket and dropped it in a heap next to him, not bothering to fold it. He unbuttoned his cuffs and collar, doing his best to become as disheveled as possible, and making it easier to take his shirt off right away if necessary.

As he undressed, Crowley seemed to shift his body, widening the space between his bent knees and arching his back.

Gabriel bit his lip, feeling sick at the implication. Crowley must really think him some kind of whore, to even try this sort of temptation. To assume that this would work on him, that he’d take advantage of someone so helpless.

_ Well, he’s certainly been hearing about you from Aziraphale for millennia. Not exactly a good impression, and not exactly inaccurate, either _ .

Still, despite all the disrespect and ego, he’d never...done anything like that.

“I…” he said, trying to find the right words, whatever would please Aziraphale, whatever would show Crowley that he wasn’t some homewrecking, greedy, lust-addled monster. “I’m not…”

He must have said something right - or maybe it was the crackling hesitancy in his speech - because Crowley turned his head slightly, glancing over at Gabriel. He didn’t make eye contact, keeping his gaze trained somewhere around Gabriel’s own knees, but for the first time the archangel could see the demon’s face.

This was no act, he thought at once, seeing the haunted, hollow look in those reptilian eyes. 

Of course, he had no way of truly knowing. Gabriel knew very little about demons, and this one was supposed to be a world-class tempter. Plus, anyone willing and able to love Aziraphale, with all his darkness, probably wasn’t to be trusted.

Still, Gabriel couldn’t believe that what he saw now was faked. Maybe it was some innate angelic naivety, but maybe it was something else - the fact that he saw a reflection of his own torment, that he knew how it felt, to have everything within you annihilated by pain and fear and shame. 

But if this wasn’t a trap, or a test, what was it? How had he ended up here, dressed in his old suit, watch-less and free?

_ Maybe...maybe it finally happened. That thing Aziraphale always talked about. Maybe She heard me. She rescued me. She gave me another chance. _

A chance to be good. Truly good, not just submissive. A chance at redemption.

“Can he hear us?” Gabriel asked as quietly as he could.

Crowley shook his head. “No,” he said. “Only you, Master.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Gabriel said. A spark of hope flashed in his heart. Maybe She had heard him say that. Had heard him decline power rather than relishing in it. 

Then he felt unutterably guilty, for thinking of his own salvation rather than Crowley’s suffering.

“I’m going to get you out of here,” he said, unnerved by the fact that this promise seemed to frighten rather than comfort Crowley. “We’re going to be okay.”

***

Gabriel had no idea why, or how, he found himself on Earth, in the middle of pushing open the door to Aziraphale’s bookshop. Michael and her useless underlings must have been fooling around with some new technology in the lab.

Pointless. He’d told them as much - now that they had the collar, and the training protocol he had so expertly developed, they didn’t need to be inventing anything else. They should be focused on duplicating the collar and getting as many demons as possible under Heaven’s yoke.

No matter. As soon as he was back in Heaven, he’d pause time for a bit, let himself into the labs, and make sure this nonsense didn’t happen again.

But as long as he was here -

His thoughts were immediately interrupted by the sight of the demon Crowley. There he was, uncollared, clothed, out of his cell, standing on two feet as if he had the  _ right _ \- looking for all the world like someone  _ free _ .

“You,” Gabriel snarled, pointing at Crowley and stepping towards him, intending to right this wrong, and then some.

Then Aziraphale was between the two, looking hilariously cross, glaring at Gabriel like he thought his personal disapproval could stop an archangel from claiming what belonged to him.

Gabriel went to push past the pudgy angel, but as soon as he did so, he felt a strange sensation run up his arm and into his chest.

Pain, he realized belatedly, as he crumpled to his knees on the disgustingly filthy bookshop floor. The sensation was pain.

“What…” Gabriel’s speech came out as a grunt through gritted teeth as he fought to keep his gaze locked on Crowley. The demon just looked back at him - right into his eyes.

_ What was going on? _

“You’ll pay for this, sweetheart,” he managed once he could get a breath. 

Crowley had the absolute nerve to look confused.

His attention was captured, then, by Aziraphale standing over him with his arms crossed, looking down. 

“Do you see?” Aziraphale was saying, presumably to Crowley. “I told you.”

Gabriel tried to turn his glare to Aziraphale, to show his full contempt in the way that always made the angel crumple. But he couldn’t quite manage it, instead looking up at the angel with a pained and confused expression.

He had never been more humiliated. 

Rage coursed through him.

He’d put an end to all this quickly, and then make sure these two pathetic fools regretted their little attempt for the rest of eternity.

Gabriel lifted his hand, his fingers poised to snap.

The world went black.


	2. Chapter 2

Gabriel didn’t know where he would take Crowley - he didn’t even know where he was taking Crowley  _ from _ \- but he knew he couldn’t leave the demon here, in this state.

He picked up the suit jacket from its winkled pile on the floor and draped it over Crowley’s huddled body. The silk lining would be forever ruined by the demon’s blood, but Gabriel didn’t care.

Not anymore.

He lifted Crowley into his arms, startled again at just how weightless the demon was, and headed out of the cell’s door.

Whatever he expected to find when he walked out of the dungeon room carrying a near-discorporated demon, it wasn’t this.

Gabriel was in Heaven - he’d know these halls anywhere - but something was wrong.

_ Is it another trick? Is Aziraphale controlling all this? _

But as he made his way toward his office, he saw that it was far stranger.

Time seemed to be frozen. 

All the other angels were perfectly still, completely unaware of him as he passed through the office spaces currently occupied by sightless, lifeless, motionless angels.

Unnerved, Gabriel hurried to his office and laid Crowley down as gently as he could on the carpet.

_ Why didn’t he have a bed, or real quarters? _ Aziraphale had been right about him. So blinded by his own ego that he wasn’t even of use to a wounded demon. 

The demon, who had been curled tightly in on himself while Gabriel carried him, now tried to drag himself back into some kind of subservient position.

Before he could do any more damage to himself, Gabriel put a hand on Crowley’s back. The demon stiffened under the touch. 

Gabriel closed his eyes and focused all of his powers into Crowley’s mangled corporation. The extent of the demon’s injuries would have been astonishing, had Gabriel not already been intimately familiar with Aziraphale’s rough handling.

He hadn’t used his miracles in a long time - even when he wasn’t wearing the cuffs, it just didn’t feel...safe. He worried that Aziraphale would track them somehow, maybe via the watch, and punish him for “frivolous” miracles.

_ He learned from the best _ , a voice inside Gabriel snipped at him.  _ Way to pass your management priorities off on your underlings. _

Still, he was an Archangel, and he had power - though it had been mostly ignored lately. It felt exhilarating to perform miracles again, and it felt especially good knowing he was helping someone.

Crowley’s body shifted and seemed to unfurl, fluidly getting on his hands and knees with his forehead pressed to the floor.

“Thank you, Sir,” he breathed.

Like this, Crowley’s nakedness was even more uncomfortably obvious. Gabriel felt a flush of embarrassment color his neck and face. Is this what he looked like, to Aziraphale?

Best not to think about that. Instead, he strode over to his wardrobe, which he discovered still contained all of his clothes, even the ones he had gotten rid of on Aziraphale’s orders.

He pulled out a jogging suit, plush grey velour, and brought it to Crowley. “Here,” he said, trying to sound soothing. “You can put these on.”

Crowley obeyed. Gabriel turned around, trying to restore some dignity to the bizarre proceedings. When he turned back, Crowley was on his knees with his hands clasped behind his back and his head bowed. He looked shockingly frail, his skin-and-bones frame nearly swallowed up by the jogging clothes intended for Gabriel’s broad frame.

“Um,” Gabriel said. “Do you know why time is stopped?”

Crowley looked up, still not meeting Gabriel’s eyes, but clearly listening closely. He said nothing.

“Can he do that?”

Crowley’s lips parted as if he meant to say something, but no words came out. He glanced up once at Gabriel, then shut his mouth and pointed his gaze back down.

“Please,” Gabriel said, starting to feel desperate. “Come see.”

He reached down and Crowley took his hand, allowing himself to be led barefoot out into the main offices. 

“Look,” Gabriel said, and Crowley obediently lifted his head and took in the surroundings.

Gabriel watched him, waiting to see whether Crowley would offer any clues about how to get them out of this situation.

The demon looked around, his face a portrait of dawning realization and abject horror. He slowly lifted one shaking hand to the collar around his neck, touching it just barely with his fingertips, then staring down at his own hand as if it carried some awful information. He turned to Gabriel, gave him one wide-eyed look of utter despair, then collapsed onto his knees.

This wasn’t like him going purposefully to the dungeon floor. It seemed all life, all hope, all strength had fled from the demon. He wrapped his arms around his head, fists clutching at nothing, and let out a wretched cry of defeat like nothing Gabriel had ever heard.

***

When Gabriel came to, he felt an odd sort of heaviness in his limbs. He went to shake them out and restore his full Archangelic power, but it was like smashing into a solid wall. He felt drained, as if something critical had slipped away from him.

As he blinked his way back into full consciousness, he was next aware of Aziraphale’s voice, sounding angrier than the stupid angel had ever dared to sound in his boss’s presence.

“You see? I told you! He was just waiting for a moment to - to come and - to come after us!”

Gabriel was on the floor, for some reason, curled up on his side like a child. He tried to stand up, but something caught him up. He saw that his two wrists were cuffed together and linked to a very short chain on the floor, which kept him tethered there. The most he could do was shuffle ungracefully onto his knees, unable to even straighten his back due to the chain around his wrists.

“What have you done,” he seethed, craning his neck to look at Crowley, who was pacing back and forth at the edge of the room.

Aziraphale ignored him and just kept shouting. “He’s a threat to you! He would have - if I hadn’t - I don’t even want to  _ think _ about it, Crowley!”

“You’ll regret this,” Gabriel said, raising his voice to match the angel’s. “You especially, sweetheart. You know better, and you don’t even want to know what’s coming once this is ov -”

Aziraphale’s fist crashed into Gabriel’s face, cutting him off and sending a blinding shock of pain through him.

“Shut up,” the angel said, grabbing a fistful of Gabriel’s hair and yanking his head back. “Do not speak to him again.”

Gabriel laughed. If Aziraphale thought he had anything to say about what Gabriel could and couldn’t do with Crowley - well, he was certainly about to be disabused of that little fantasy.

He pressed his thumb and middle finger together, summoning up all of his Archangelic strength, ready to end this little charade once and for all.

But nothing happened.

His powers were gone.

He tried again, and this time it felt as if the breath - something he’d never needed before - had been knocked out of him. Gabriel gasped, glowering up at Aziraphale as the world swirled around him. “Clearly,” Aziraphale said, his grip tightening in Gabriel’s hair so much that it hurt, it  _ hurt _ , was hair even supposed to hurt? - “Our treacherous little dove needs to be kept under a much heavier hand.”


	3. Chapter 3

Gabriel had never felt more alone than he did right here, right now. Everyone he knew in Heaven was frozen in time, unable to speak or move or hear him.

The only other being in this strange world with him was Crowley, who right now was on the floor, heaving with sobs. 

He had no idea where Aziraphale was.

He had no idea what he was supposed to do.

_ Think _ , Gabriel told himself, glancing around at the eerily still bodies of his colleagues.  _ What would the old you have done? What would Aziraphale tell you to do? _

_ What would She want? _

As tenderly as he could, Gabriel bent and gathered Crowley into his arms again, carrying the quivering demon back into his office. 

Clearly, Crowley needed some rest, some time to recover. Gabriel didn’t want to put him back on the floor, but there weren’t many other options.

He could try and miracle a bed, but he was out of practice, and so tired after healing Crowley. And he still worried about Aziraphale, who was certainly out there, and might be tracking his miracles somehow. 

Cradling Crowley in one arm, Gabriel used his free hand to open his wardrobe, pulling everything out and piling it into a heap on the floor. Shirts, pants, jackets, running clothes, even ties - everything he could find, everything that had once belonged to him and had somehow returned to his possession.

_ A second chance. _

_ Do something better with them, this time around.  _

He kicked the clothing pile around with one foot, grimacing at the fine Italian leather shoe that he certainly hadn’t put on himself. Crowley hardly stirred when Gabriel nestled him into it, only curling in tighter on himself.

Gabriel looked around his office, which seemed both familiar and strangely off, as if he were looking in on reality from an oblique angle.

The watch. He needed to find the watch. 

Gabriel started searching the office, as quickly as possible without making any noise that would disturb Crowley. He found his watch box, lacquered cherry wood with silver latches and lavender velvet inside, but Aziraphale’s creation wasn’t in there.

It wasn’t in his desk drawers, either, but he did find something else. A little white booklet he’d never seen before, despite it being in his desk somehow.

He lifted it out and realized with a quiet gasp that the image on the front was the exact device Crowley wore around his neck.

With trembling hands, Gabriel opened the booklet. It was blank - but he knew, somehow, what to do.

“How do I take it off him?”

***

“Aziraphale, I think there’s something wrong with him.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “Obviously there’s something wrong with him. He tried to -”

“No,” Crowley interrupted. “Something... _ different _ .”

Gabriel saw Crowley bending down to peer at him, searchingly. He wore those stupid sunglasses -  _ how had he gotten them back? _ \- but behind them, Gabriel saw a glint of yellow. He glared back, daring Crowley to keep talking, keep looking at him.

_ Keep digging your own grave, sweetheart _ .

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Aziraphale said, letting go of Gabriel so he could pulling Crowley back, his hand on the demon’s arm like a guide. 

As if he could do anything to protect the demon from Gabriel. 

“He’s always been like this,” Aziraphale continued. “He never changed. Always waiting, ready for his first opportunity to destroy us.”

“I don’t think so,” Crowley said, a question hanging in his voice. “Look at him, angel. It’s like...I don’t know. Like he’s changed.”

“He does have quite a poor memory,” Aziraphale replied airily. “Forgets his lessons all the time. It seems he just needs a reminder. Of what he is, and what he deserves.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers, and was suddenly wearing a pair of long white gloves, for some reason. Then he walked over to a musty old desk at the edge of the room. Gabriel watched as he waved his hand over its surface, then slid open a drawer.

Something stung his nostrils. Something rank in the drawer, seeping out as soon as it was opened.

_ Brimstone. _

_ Hellfire. _

Gabriel could hardly believe his eyes when Aziraphale lifted out a whip and what looked like some kind of knife. 

“What the  _ fuck _ is that?” Gabriel spat, his gaze glued to the implements in Aziraphale’s hands. 

“Seems you’ve forgotten lots of things.” Aziraphale’s voice was cruel, cold, like nothing Gabriel had ever heard from the angel before.

“Crowley,” Gabriel growled, turning his focus onto the demon. “Stop this right now. You’ll only make things worse for yourself.”

“What did I just tell you?” Aziraphale brought the whip down onto Gabriel’s face, lashing across his jaw and neck with searing pain.

Gabriel roared, rage and agony combining into a white-hot fury. He lunged at Aziraphale, feeling his arms wrenched and his skin torn by the cuffs that held him back.

“Angel, stop!” Crowley was shouting now, giving commands, a tone that sounded completely alien from him. “What’s that thing you make him say?”

“What?” Aziraphale turned toward Crowley, giving Gabriel a second to collect himself.

Crowley was waving his hand around as if trying to remember something. Then he pointed at Gabriel. “List your sins - what are your sins, Gabriel?”

Gabriel felt his eyes narrow. “What did you just say, demon?”

“He doesn’t know!” Crowley seemed to be pleading with Aziraphale, trying to explain something that made no sense. “He’s - he’s not - it’s not him, Aziraphale. He doesn’t remember!”

Aziraphale’s cold blue eyes met Gabriel’s. “Oh, I’m sure he’ll remember. With a little...help.”

He raised the whip again. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally wrote this chapter on my phone in my car while waiting to get a drive-in COVID test at some apocalyptically repurposed fairgrounds then edited it while very stoned, so, just, be aware of that please and thank you

It was simple enough to remove the collar from Crowley. As he did so, Gabriel saw a stunned, lost expression flicker through the demon’s eyes before they went back to their calculated blankness.

Where the collar had sat, Crowley’s skin was pale and thin, almost translucent. Gabriel could see taut tendons and pulsing veins, like some kind of grotesque map, roads and valleys all carved by fear and suffering. 

Gabriel slipped the collar into his pocket. It seemed like a hateful thing, and he hated to carry it with him, but something told him not to leave it unattended. 

Though Crowley wasn’t looking at him, Gabriel could tell that the demon’s entire focus was on him - as if he was waiting, or searching, for something.

“I...I don’t have any sunglasses,” Gabriel said apologetically. Without them, Crowley looked wrong, somehow; exposed and fragile. “But I can turn the lights down. Is that okay?”

Crowley made a soft little noise, which Gabriel had to assume was a yes. He walked over to the light switch - at least that was still the same, despite everything - and turned the lights down low.

By the time he turned back around, Crowley had crawled out of the makeshift bed and was huddled on the floor, his arms behind his back, his head bowed like a penitent. “Thank you, Sir,” he murmured. 

“Um.” Gabriel scratched his own neck, feeling very uncomfortable. “That’s okay. Really. I, uh, I think you should get some sleep.”

Crowley didn’t move. He didn’t speak again. 

“Is...is there anything else you need to get comfortable?”

This time, Crowley’s answer was quick and clear as lightning. “No, Sir,” he said, then crawled right back into the nest of clothes, exactly how Gabriel had laid him down. 

“Try to sleep, okay?” Gabriel said, trying to sound friendly and reassuring. “I’m going to figure this out.”

Back in the drawer where Gabriel had found the manual for the collar, there was a tiny silver key. He looked around for what it might fit, and his eyes fell on a safe tucked into one corner of the office. 

After a short prayer, begging Her to stop him if this wasn’t the right thing to do, Gabriel opened the safe. 

It was full of notebooks. Gabriel opened one and saw his own handwriting, blocky and neat. 

He began to read.

The notebooks depicted some kind of torture and training program, carried out on the demon Crowley. 

By him. 

Aziraphale hadn’t done this to Crowley. 

He had. 

Gabriel flipped through page after page of atrocities, hot tears swimming in his eyes. He had no memory of writing any of this - let alone doing it - but there was no denying his own voice, the sanctimonious and power-hungry creature that Aziraphale had shown him to be. 

_ But I was never this bad. I’d never do this. _

Rudeness toward one’s subordinates was, as he knew now, unacceptable and far from righteous. 

But this? Torture and enslavement?

Was this who he would have become, had Aziraphale not wrenched him off that path?

Gabriel felt like he would be sick. His stomach roiled and his chest tightened as he continued to read. 

Was this what had been lurking in him, the inner evil Aziraphale was so brutally rooting out?

Was this Her way of showing him how close he’d come to utter depravity? 

Could he still - with Someone’s help - be redeemed?

***

Pain. 

All Gabriel knew was pain. 

At first, his rage had held him together. He told himself that every lash Aziraphale brought down on him, he’d mete out to Crowley ten times over before this was all done. 

He screamed and howled, thinking about how Crowley - and that stupid angel, too - would sing the same song for him, louder and all the more sweetly. He channeled the present torture into fantasies of the future, buoyed by the knowledge that one day it would be him, again, on the other side of the whip. 

But this vengeful resistance could not carry him forever. His corporation, bound by whatever magics Aziraphale had gotten his pudgy little hands on, was losing its strength and wouldn’t let him focus for more than a second on anything but the pain, the pain, the pain. 

Aziraphale wanted him to say something. At first he had refused, on principle. The Archangel Gabriel took orders from no one. 

He had shouted threats, demands, orders. He had told Aziraphale just what he thought of this little plot, and just how it would end.

He had refused to speak, for a while, clenching his jaw and acting like he fully expected to outlast Aziraphale in strength and stubbornness.

Now, though, he just needed it to stop. He would say anything to make the pain end. 

Then he could catch his breath. Get his head together. Find the next step.

He’d say whatever stupid thing Aziraphale demanded, yield that battle for the sake of the larger war. They both would know he didn’t mean it. 

The problem was that he had no idea what Aziraphale wanted him to say. 

As the whip continued to fall - on his bare back, now - he tried whatever promises and answers he could come up with. None seemed to satisfy the angel. 

A new wave of indignant fury coursed through Gabriel. Just because Aziraphale had found some new toy and some balls, now he thought he could play with the big boys? Well, he’d soon come to regret even stepping in to Gabriel’s game. 

“State your sins, Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, with a calm condescension that  _ galled _ .

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Gabriel snarled through gritted teeth, his cheekbone radiating with pain as he spoke. One of his eyes seemed to be swollen shut, and everything looked dim and blurry. 

“I’m sure you can think of something,” Aziraphale said, and rained down more blows. Gabriel kicked and writhed on the floor, still chained by his wrists, unable to protect himself from the relentless flogging. 

“So I hurt your precious demon,” Gabriel moaned. “Is that what you want to hear? That I finally did what you never had the brains to?”

This was not what Aziraphale wanted to hear.

Gabriel twisted and screamed under the whip for what felt like an eternity before the angel asked him again. 

“State your sins, Gabriel.”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel panted, his bloodied body limp and heavy on the carpet. “I did it, I did it, okay? Crowley…sins.” 

Aziraphale sighed. Gabriel braced himself for another beating, but it didn’t come. The angel was on the other side of the room, conferring with the demon in a hushed voice. Gabriel strained to hear. 

“He’s trying to…”

“All he talks about is hurting you! It’s a threat…”

“...don’t think he knows…”

“...leave this until morning…”

Aziraphale was back, now, standing over Gabriel with his arms crossed. “I’m very tired of your disobedience, Gabriel. And, more importantly, this behavior has become very distressing to my Crowley. So I think it’s time for us to take some time to ourselves. I recommend you think about whether you want to keep up this foolishness, or whether you’ll be more cooperative the next time I ask for your penance.”

With that, he snapped his fingers and Gabriel found himself strung up by his arms, his toes barely brushing the floor.

Instantly, he recognized the position.

He had left Crowley like this many, many times. 

Any time he wanted to come back and find the demon fully broken and pliant. 

“Goodnight, dove,” Aziraphale said, before guiding Crowley out of the room and shutting the door behind them. 


	5. Chapter 5

Crowley was dreaming.

It had been a long, long time since Crowley had dreamt. The unconscious blackness that he sometimes collapsed into when his weakened corporation could no longer tolerate Gabriel’s abuse was entirely dreamless.

But he was dreaming now.

_ Crowley was falling, falling, descending from heaven, his wings tucked tightly against his body, making for earth like a bullet. _

_ Below him, approaching fast, were the roofs of London, bearing up toward him as he plummeted.  _

_ He crashed through one roof, tiles and plaster exploding around him, and found himself back in the bookshop. _

_ Home. _

_ Aziraphale. _

_ There was the angel, sitting at his desk, a beam of sunlight pouring in over his round and precious face. _

_ But something was wrong. _

_ Crowley saw dust motes in the sunlight, suspended in the air as if captured by a photograph. _

_ Aziraphale, too, was not moving, statuesque and motionless, one hand poised to pick up a cup of tea. _

_ Crowley crept closer and touched Aziraphale’s hand. The angel’s eyes were unseeing, his flesh unyielding.  _

_ Gone. _

_ Dead? Might as well have been. Somewhere Crowley couldn’t follow. Cut off from this world.  _

_ Crowley leaned in close, as if to kiss the angel. _

_ Something else was wrong. _

_ A smell. Not Aziraphale’s smell. _

_ Not pastries, book glue, well-worn fabric.  _

_ Lavender. Shoe polish. Ozone. _

_ Not Aziraphale. _

_ Gabriel. _

_ Crowley whipped around, searching for the Archangel. He was here. Was he here? _

_ He would come, and he would take, and hurt, and destroy. _

_ No. He couldn’t touch Aziraphale. Not if he was here, with Crowley, moving through time. _

_ Frozen as he was, Aziraphale couldn’t be harmed. _

_ He was safe. _

_ Gone. Separated from wherever Crowley was. Forever. _

_ And safe.  _

_ Somewhere Gabriel wasn’t.  _

_ Somewhere Crowley wasn’t.  _

_ Crowley tried to turn around again, but his body felt as if it had been wrapped like a mummy, heavy fabric dragging him down and tangling him up. He stumbled, falling to the bookshop floor, thick carpets beneath his limbs. _

_ A sound. _

_ Snapping fingers. _

_ Crowley looked up. Though the rest of him remained perfectly still, Aziraphale’s hand was moving. _

_ Snap. _

_ Snap. _

_ Snap. _

_ No. No, he couldn’t. _

_ Don’t come back, angel. Don’t come here. _

_ Crowley watched in horror as the angel’s fingers, the only part of him that moved, continued to make the same motion. _

_ He had to stop it. _

_ Stop Aziraphale. _

_ Make it stop. _

_ Stop. _

_ Stop! _

Crowley awoke, bleary-eyed and disoriented, still thinking for a moment he was on the bookshop floor, lying on heavy carpeting.

But everything smelled like Gabriel.

And the sound of snapping fingers continued.

Crowley sat up, looking around to find himself in Gabriel’s office. His body felt light, and he realized it was the absence of the collar’s background hum of weariness. He touched his neck, astonished again to find it bare.

Snap.

Snap.

Gabriel was on the floor near him, crouched over a spread of papers and notebooks, his brow furrowed. His right hand was raised and he was snapping his fingers, again and again, looking more agitated with each one.

The archangel hadn’t noticed that Crowley was awake. He slipped into his kneeling position, then took the time to gather his thoughts.

Gabriel had removed his collar. And he would only do that if he had found another way to subdue and control Crowley.

Time. It was frozen. So it didn’t matter what Crowley did. There was nowhere to run, nothing to do. Gabriel controlled the very fabric of reality. Crowley’s demonic powers were meaningless. Useless.

There was nothing else, now. He was alone with Gabriel, trapped in an eternity of nothing, an endless moment of torment. No hope. No Aziraphale. No future. 

Nothing but Gabriel. 

Despite himself, Crowley took in a shuddering breath, trying to hold back tears again.

Gabriel turned toward the noise. “Oh, you’re awake!”

Crowley went perfectly still. 

“I think I figured it out,” Gabriel said. Crowley fixed his expression to one of subservient attention as the archangel spoke. “Stopping time. It says here that he - that I - learned it from you.”

Crowley felt the sharp spines of self hatred penetrate even deeper through his soul. Of course he had been the architect of his own destruction.

“But I can’t undo it.” Gabriel sound almost frightened, and Crowley tried to figure out what new game he was playing at. “I’ve read over and over how he - how I - how it was done, and it’s too hard.”

Though his eyes were cast down, Crowley could tell Gabriel was moving closer to him, holding something out towards him. A notebook.

“Can you help me?”

***

Something was very, very wrong. 

Not as far as Aziraphale was concerned - no, he was positively crowing with  _ I told you so’s _ , patting himself on the back for protecting himself and Crowley from whatever Gabriel had been scheming, and apparently quite thrilled to be planning new methods of subduing the Archangel.

But Crowley had seen something strange in Gabriel - something in his tone, his gaze, his posture - that Aziraphale had been blind to. And he was determined to figure out what that was.

So, while Aziraphale was snuggled up in bed with a heavy tome on occult mind control, Crowley mumbled something about checking on the Bentley’s oil and slipped downstairs.

He pushed open the door to the backroom and saw Gabriel, his broad, muscular frame silhouetted against the far wall.

“You,” Gabriel hissed as soon as he saw Crowley enter the room. “Let me down, right now.”

Crowley ignored him, only turning on the light. 

“You can still make this a bit easier on yourself, sweetheart,” Gabriel said, his voice on the razor’s edge between cajoling and threatening. “Let me down, and you’ll earn yourself a little mercy.”

“What’s going on?” Crowley asked, folding his arms and leaning against the wall, far from Gabriel. “What are you trying to do?”

Gabriel glared at him, violence in his eyes. “I don’t answer to you,” he sneered. “How did you even get here, anyway?”

“I live here.”

Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “So you admit it after all. You must really think this is going to work, you stupid little slut.”

Crowley had no idea what Gabriel was talking about. “What is your problem, man? I tried to  _ help _ you -”

Gabriel laughed, a loud guffaw that Crowley was certain Aziraphale could hear, even upstairs. “You? Help me?” Gabriel sniffed, sounding very haughty for someone strung up naked in a storeroom. “Oh, this is going to be fun, sweetheart.”

“Stop calling me that.” Crowley was getting annoyed now, which overrode his concern and confusion. “Aziraphale always told me you tried... _ that _ ...to get your way, but I never believed him. Guess he was right after all.”

“What are you talking about?” Gabriel sounded off balance now, less self-certain.

“What are  _ you _ talking about?” Crowley didn’t even know why he had come down here, couldn’t even identify the questions he supposedly was seeking answers to. “You come crashing in here doing the one thing Aziraphale was afraid of, trying to fuck us - literally or figuratively, I don’t even know at this point - when you could have just left us alone! I was convincing him to leave the whole thing alone!”

Gabriel didn’t respond right away to Crowley’s outburst. Instead, he was just staring at Crowley, scanning him up and down with a thoughtful, knowing gaze that made Crowley feel strangely exposed, considering that he wasn’t the one naked and chained up.

Then Gabriel spoke, a cool certainty in his voice that sent shivers down Crowley’s spine.

“You’re not him, are you?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No Repo!Gabe in DiP!World this chapter...stay tuned!

Gabriel held his breath as Crowley looked over the notebook. The demon didn’t touch it, didn’t make a move, so Gabriel simply held it out, doing his best to keep his arm steady so that Crowley could read.

For a while they sat like that, Crowley on his knees, his eyes flickering over the handwritten pages, Gabriel crouched next to him, holding the book.

Then, Crowley’s eyes went still. His breathing became more deliberate. It seemed he was done reading, at least. Gabriel put the notebook down.

“Can you fix it?” Gabriel asked, hesitant. “Can you make time start again?”

A stillness hung between them, then; not the stillness of the rest of the world, but a tense and wondering stillness, as if Crowley had to wrestle through thousands of thoughts before he could take another step.

Finally, Crowley held out his hand, his thumb and middle finger separated by an inch of space. Between them, a miracle crackled: raw demonic power, ready to be unleashed.

The gesture was obvious enough; a gesture of giving, of invitation, of surrender.

Gabriel reached for it, gingerly setting his own fingertips on either side of the concentrated force Crowley had conjured.

Touching Crowley’s miracle felt strange - wrong - oddly  _ intimate _ . Angels did not hand each other their power, not like this.

Gabriel took the demonic power into his own hand and snapped his fingers. He felt a thunderclap in his own chest, like a too-quick expansion of the atmosphere, and rocked back on his heels.

Had it worked?

Gabriel opened his office door and peeked out. There was the standard hum of Heaven, the daily rhythm and chatter of the great Host.

He felt himself sigh in relief.

But no sooner had he shut the door and turned back to Crowley - still kneeling stiffly on the floor - than Michael was in his office, looking severe and impatient.

“Gabriel, the Occult Counterintelligence Unit was wondering - wait, what is all this mess?” Michael gestured at the pile of clothing and the notebooks scattered across the floor. “And what is the demon doing out of its cell with no collar on?”

“Um.” Gabriel wondered if perhaps he had been premature in restoring the universe to its standard pace before figuring more things out. “He’s, uh, he’s fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. There’s just been, uh, a slight emergency.”

“What kind of emergency?”

It was a very good question, Gabriel had to admit. One he would certainly have appreciated an answer to as well.

“Nothing, nothing to worry about. Just - an earth related emergency. We have to - I have to take him - we have to go to earth.”

“Is there something I and the team should be aware of, Gabriel?” 

For all of Gabriel’s sins, so well enumerated by Aziraphale, lying was not one of his vices. He cast around in his mind for something that might satisfy Michael enough to buy him some time. 

“No,” Gabriel said. “I mean, not at the moment. Give me some time to investigate, and I’ll have the full report to you ASAP.”

“Alright.” Michael still sounded suspicious, but she seemed willing to drop the issue. “I’ll send someone in here to clean this up.”

“No!” Gabriel couldn’t let anyone else see the horrors contained in those notebooks - and letting some lower ranking angel tidy up after him was unfair, and would certainly set him back even farther in his redemptive efforts. “I’ll take care of it. Thank you, Michael.”

Finally, the other Archangel left. Gabriel hurriedly gathered up a handful of the notebooks, then shoved the rest back into the safe.

“Okay, so, I think we need to go see him. Aziraphale, I mean. He has to know something. Right?”

“No.” The entire demon’s body went rigid. “He doesn’t know anything.”

Gabriel rubbed his eyes, feeling lost. Clearly Crowley didn’t want to go see Aziraphale - and frankly, Gabriel didn’t, either - but he was the only being in the universe who might be powerful enough to understand what was going on. 

“I’ll tell him it was all me, okay? I won’t let him - er,” Gabriel trailed off, unsure whether it was fair to promise Crowley protection from Aziraphale when he doubted he could actually stand up to the angel. “I mean, I’ll make sure he knows everything. Everything I know, at least.”

This absolutely did not seem to calm Crowley. He was trembling, now, his hands still behind his back but now clenched into tight fists, the muscles of his throat tense and jittery as if working hard to contain some forbidden speech.

“I need his help,” Gabriel said. “Something’s going on, and I can’t put it all together without him. It’ll be okay. Come on.”

Gabriel put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, guiding him to stand. Crowley moved like a marionette, jerky and barely-controlled. 

Standing up, he looked even tinier, drowning in Gabriel’s running clothes. The neck was wide enough that it hung down over one bony shoulder, showing delicate, visible collarbones. Crowley’s hands were swallowed up by the sleeves. The pants pooled around his feet and threatened to slide from his hips.

“I don’t think I have any shoes that will fit you,” Gabriel said apologetically. “It won’t take long, though. I know the way real well by now.”

In the elevator, Gabriel stood as far as he could from Crowley, keeping his back pressed to the elevator’s far corner.

It was strange, being in the elevator with Crowley. Gabriel normally took the elevator alone, these days, giving himself time to wait it out if there were any other angels using it. Being in the small space with anyone - including other angels - made him feel trapped, cornered. 

He remembered far too well the ride down with Aziraphale, after the failed execution.

And, then, all the other rides, the watch warming on his wrist, fear and anxiety rising in his chest.

He moved to check the watch, a fidgeting habit that had become constant, especially when he was headed to earth. 

Again, he was reminded of its absence.

Aziraphale was going to be furious.

“What should I wear?” Gabriel asked Crowley, who was standing in the other back corner of the elevator. “I mean, what do you think he would...approve of?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley hissed. “I keep telling you. We’re. Not. Close.”

Gabriel frowned. Last he knew, Crowley and Aziraphale were quite close. Married, even. Aziraphale had been very clear with him about how much he cared for the demon, and how little he would tolerate any threat to their relationship.

But then again, last he knew, Crowley was happy and healthy, getting up to whatever business he had at the bookshop and going out with friends. Not strung up in a cell in Heaven, covered in vicious injuries. 

Something terrible had happened, Gabriel could tell that much. And he didn’t know what else to do but to go to Aziraphale. Even if Aziraphale didn’t know how to fix things, at least Gabriel wouldn’t make things worse for himself by trying to hide things from the angel.

So, as much as Crowley might protest for his own reasons, Gabriel knew there was nowhere to go but the bookshop.

The question now was what he ought to be wearing when he arrived. He would already be in trouble for losing the watch. He couldn’t show up in this suit, one he knew would enrage the angel. 

Gabriel thought about the notebooks he carried in one arm, notebooks that laid out a terrible litany of his sins, far worse ones than any he’d ever confessed to Aziraphale. 

Sins he had no memory of, but which some version of himself had committed, with apparent relish, and then documented.

Gabriel knew what he had to do. 

_ They shall clothe themselves with sackcloth, and horror shall cover them; and shame shall be on all faces. _

With a snap of his fingers, Gabriel found himself in a scratchy piece of sackcloth, filthy and uncomfortable. It was a facsimile of the one he’d witnessed Isaiah wearing, though he desperately hoped Aziraphale wouldn’t make the connection. Gabriel didn’t mean to imply that he saw himself as a prophet. Only, he didn’t have many other references.

_ Never one for the common people, were you, Archangel? Just the prophets. God’s chosen. Like you. Isn’t that right? _

Trying not to scratch at the spots where the rough fabric was already beginning to rub his skin raw, Gabriel led Crowley out of the elevator and through the London streets. A small miracle ensured that none of the humans could see their odd procession - a barefoot, skeletal redhead in jogging clothes that were nearly falling off him, following behind Gabriel, his arms and legs bare, his body covered in a meagre sackcloth.

As they approached the bookshop, Gabriel became aware of a strange buzzing. It didn’t come through his ears, but rather, seemed to be carried into his mind, speaking through to his angelic essence.

He turned to see Crowley, who had been a few steps behind him through the entire journey. Silent tears were streaming down the demon’s face, making a wet patch on the front of his jogging sweatshirt. But emanating from his head, in a form Gabriel could neither hear nor see but rather divinely sense, was a chaotic riot of half-finished pleas, images, and words.

It was as if Crowley were trying to send some information out into the world, but kept stopping himself before he could. Or, as if he were trying to send a message coded in so much noise that it would become indecipherable. 

“Hey,” Gabriel said, stopping just outside the bookshop’s front doors. Crowley’s chest was heaving, his fists clenching and unclenching, and surrounding him was such a cacophony of desperation that it started to give Gabriel a headache. “He’ll understand. He loves you.”

Crowley turned and ran. 


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley had been missing for two weeks at this point, and Aziraphale was beginning to grow rather desperate.

The bookshop was closed, and would remain so for the foreseeable future. Aziraphale needed all his time and attention focused on finding Crowley. 

He was sitting at his heavy desk, a cup of tea growing cold next to him, as he pored over an ancient human text about binding spells for demons, trying to understand whether any of them were actually able to fully conceal said demon.

At around 3:00pm, Aziraphale was distracted from his studies by a strange sort of buzzing in the air.

No, not the air - in the ethereal plane. 

_ Crowley? _

Aziraphale stood up and followed the noise to the front door. He could only partially make it out - it was like static from an old radio, half-formed phrases and snippets of meaning. It was frantic, garbled, and it made Aziraphale’s head hurt.

RUN -  _ oysters on the half shell, gone rancid -  _ LIES -  _ a burning tent, somewhere in the Ottoman Empire? _ \- AZIRAPHALE -  _ screams without echoes -  _ DON’T - _ a waterfall, frozen into icicles -  _ GABRIEL -  _ flares of white-hot pain - _

He pushed open the bookshop door and saw a figure running from the bookshop, half-stumbling in what looked like a poorly draped velour toga. Though his back was to Aziraphale, those red curls would be obvious anywhere. Crowley.

Aziraphale thought he also saw the Archangel Gabriel too, standing by the door in some kind of gray sack - but it couldn’t have been him, not dressed like  _ that _ . The vision was gone in an instant, and Aziraphale chalked it up as a hallucination grown from his own mind, trying to make sense of the raving messages coming from Crowley.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale began pursuit. 

Crowley turned toward the noise, his eyes wide with panic, and waved his arm in an exaggerated gesture. “Aziraphale, NO!”

But the motion was too much combined with Crowley’s attempt to flee, and he tripped, collapsing onto the sidewalk. Aziraphale caught up to him easily, bending down to gather the demon into a massive, relieved hug.

“Get away, get away,” Crowley cried, trying to shove Aziraphale off him. “Run, angel, please.”

“It’s alright, love,” he said, refusing to let go of Crowley. “I’m here, I’m here. What’s happened?”

Aziraphale pulled Crowley up from the ground, intending to lead him back home, to the bookshop - but Crowley immediately tugged his arm free of Aziraphale and backed up a few paces, squaring his shoulders defensively. 

“Crowley, dear, what on earth is the matter?” Aziraphale could feel himself beginning to tear up. He had spent the last few weeks thinking of nothing but when and how he might see Crowley again, and now that he had, the demon wouldn’t even tolerate his embrace. 

“Gabriel,” Crowley said, looking around like a cornered animal. “It’s a trap, Aziraphale.”

“Gabriel isn’t here,” Aziraphale soothed. “I haven’t seen him since...since the day you disappeared.”

“He’s got...they’ve got...you’re not safe,” Crowley said, still standing a few feet away from Aziraphale. He was looking over the angel’s shoulder like he expected the legions of Hell to come riding up behind him any moment. “He - he thinks - they’ve got me, now they want you. But you can’t. Aziraphale, you have to go. Go back to your bookshop. Leave me here. And then…” Crowley looked over his own shoulder now, frantic as quarried prey, then turned back to Aziraphale, a steely resolve in his face as if the next words would be the most important he’d ever speak. “Deny everything.”

Aziraphale glanced around, but he saw no sign of the Archangel Gabriel. “We’ve always been careful, love. We just need to get you inside now. You look…”

How did Crowley look? Frightful. Terrified. Destroyed. And small, very small, standing barefoot on a London sidewalk with the disposition of a hunted rabbit.

“Just come inside, dear. Please.”

Aziraphale resisted the urge to reach out to Crowley again. He was right - there was clearly something threatening Crowley, and they ought to be careful. But once inside the closed, warded doors of the bookshop, they could hold each other and Aziraphale could start looking after his Crowley.

Crowley shuffled behind him slowly, his head down but still on a swivel, maintaining plenty of distance between them.

Once they closed the bookshop door, Aziraphale felt himself exhale in relief. He snapped his fingers and threw up every single possible ward he could come up with, ensuring that they would not - could not - be disturbed.

“There we are, see?” Aziraphale turned to bundle Crowley into his arms and found the demon nearly halfway across the room, arms wrapped around his torso -  _ what on earth was he wearing? _ \- chewing his lip and watching out the window. 

“Crowley, there’s no one else here.” Aziraphale made for Crowley, arms spread for an embrace, but Crowley stopped him with a look. 

“Listen to me, angel.” Crowley’s voice was nearly a hiss, and he did not make eye contact, maintaining his vigil out the window. “Don’t come any closer, and just  _ listen to me. _ ”

“Okay.” Aziraphale stopped where he was, raising his hands in surrender. “Okay, Crowley. I’m listening.”

Crowley took one deep, shaky breath, then began to speak. “I don’t know why he brought me here. I don’t know what he’s doing. But it doesn’t matter. He’s gone off, all the way, Gabriel has, and he - he’s - he’s not safe. You’re not safe, Aziraphale.”

“Gabriel hurt you?” Aziraphale was aghast. “Well that’s absolutely unacceptable. I can’t believe him. I’ll write a report to Michael right away, and -”

Crowley barked out a harsh laugh, one Aziraphale had never heard from the demon before. 

After six thousand years, Aziraphale thought he had heard every variation on Crowley’s laugh that there was. He had heard Crowley drunk on wine, giggling at Aziraphale’s attempts to tell the difference between a sleeping camel and a pile of blankets. He had heard the charmed snort of a demon suddenly struck by an angel’s capacity for wit. He had seen Crowley chuckle in courtrooms, snicker at his colleagues, laugh great belly-laughs at Aziraphale’s tales of especially bothersome customers.

But this bitter, mirthless sound was alien to his ears.

“They think we’re together,” Crowley half-shouted, pinning Aziraphale with his gaze. “I know they’re wrong, and you know it - that it was all just a ruse, you playing me, me playing you - but they won’t hear it.”

Aziraphale felt his lips parting, his mouth opening as if to speak, but he there were no words.

Crowley continued. “Don’t try to explain, angel. Don’t send Michael a note, don’t go looking for - don’t even talk to them if you can manage it. Just run. Get as far as you can. Remember that spot that we never made it out to? Go there. You’ll find it.”

Aziraphale felt as if he couldn’t breathe. “Crowley, you can’t be saying -”

“Don’t have much time for sentiment, angel, I’m afraid.” Crowley shrugged, his voice as flat and cold as wrought iron. “Call it the last flames of a lifelong rivalry. Or just a demon intent on making mischief for his masters. Just thought I’d give you a warning, before he comes back. You might be on his side, but they aren’t on yours. So you need to  _ run. _ ”

***

Aziraphale was deep into a book on magical methods of turning the will of another (having begun to wonder whether it would be preferable for Gabriel to never even  _ desire _ resisting, rather than for him to be simply  _ unable _ to) when he was distracted from his studies by a noise downstairs.

Not just any noise - Gabriel. 

_ He ought to know better, _ Aziraphale seethed as he headed downstairs.  _ Especially with Crowley here. I’ll make sure he never even thinks of opening that little mouth for anything but -  _

Aziraphale threw open the door to the backroom, only to find himself face to face with Crowley.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale felt the rage inside of him shift abruptly, like wine in a swung bottle. “What are you doing down here?”

“Just...watch, angel.” Crowley strode over to the desk and looked down at Aziraphale’s variety of tools. He deliberated for a moment, then picked up the hellfire blade with a slight grimace.

Crowley stood beside Gabriel, holding the point of the knife inches away from the Archangel’s ribcage. Gabriel stared down at Crowley, his chest heaving with breath.

Aziraphale first felt a twinge of possessive jealousy, seeing someone else holding his knife, someone else holding such sway over Gabriel. But that was quickly replaced with the welling of pride and relief at seeing Crowley finally take up what Aziraphale had been championing for so long. 

“I don’t want to do this,” Crowley said, addressing Gabriel.

“So don’t,” growled the Archangel, his eyes glued to the knife in Crowley’s hand.

“I won’t have to,” Crowley said, turning back to look meaningfully at Aziraphale, “if you can just tell me what you wore last time I was here.”

“What I - what?” Gabriel lifted his head and glared at Aziraphale, squinting his eyes.

“What you wore,” Crowley said, now resting the knife’s metal against Gabriel’s flesh. “Your general outfit. What was it.”

“Uh.” Gabriel jerked away from the blade, but Crowley simply followed him. “A...a camelhair coat, I think. Pewter buttons? Or...the one with the ivory. Why -”

Crowley shut his eyes and sliced a thin line down Gabriel’s side, making the Archangel throw his head back and roar in anguish. As soon as he finished, Crowley took one long stride and positioned himself on the other side of the Archangel, holding the knife in the same place on his other side.

“Please -” Gabriel gasped, twitching in his bonds. “Don’t - look, just wait a second. I - I think - Italian leather shoes, is it? I don’t know -”

Crowley pressed the knife tip to Gabriel. “Okay. I’ll make it easier. You can make me stop, just tell me anything you can about the last time you were here.”

Gabriel took a moment to catch his breath, then immediately started babbling. “I - I was - I just, I don’t know, checking up on Aziraphale, asking about his -  _ augh!” _

Aziraphale simply couldn’t accept that - Gabriel acting like he was the one ‘checking up’ - and he took a step toward the now thrashing Archangel, intent on clarifying some things. “Now, listen here,” he began, before Crowley cut him off with a wave.

“It’s not him,” Crowley said. He waved a hand over the injuries he’d just created and healed them, leaving Gabriel - or whatever that thing was - limp and panting. “Trust me. If he’d known what to say to make me stop…” Crowley took a deep breath, not meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “He doesn’t know.”

“Curious.” Aziraphale took another step closer, lifting his hand to take the Gabriel-shaped creature’s chin in his hand. The defiant, indignant eyes looking back at him certainly didn’t reflect much of the Gabriel he knew. Not by now, at least.

“Don’t know if it’s Hell, if they’ve found out, or - or maybe he went to someone for help, maybe the Archangels…” Crowley was fidgeting beside him.

Aziraphale reached up and touched the watch. That, at least, was real - he was beyond positive that this was the exact object he and Crowley had crafted together. So Gabriel had not only conspired with someone to figure out how to conjured some kind of copy, but he’d somehow removed his watch and passed it off.

The thrill at seeing Crowley willingly participate in what Aziraphale had come to greatly enjoy was quickly overtaken by the knowledge that somewhere, Gabriel -  _ his _ Gabriel - was out there, thinking his scheme had worked. Thinking he was free. 

_ That little traitor would pay for this.  _


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Repo!Aziraphale finds DiP!Gabriel in his bookshop. Everyone is freaked out.

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale only needed Crowley to calm down, to slow down, to simply explain what was going on. “Just tell me -” 

“You don’t understand. There’s nothing to tell. You’ve got to go.  _ Now.” _ Crowley’s voice was like frost-cracked steel, lost to itself and devoid of all warmth. 

Aziraphale could hardly believe his ears. Here was Crowley, the love of his life, with whom he planned to make a life - a future - an  _ infinity _ \- telling him it was all over? That he should leave, and never look back?

He felt fury rising in him, pure angelic wrath, righteous and glorious. It crackled through his aura and set his corporation ringing to the tune of his true form. Fury at what had been done to Crowley, at what powers of evil had brought such suffering to his doorstep, had managed to wedge itself like an axe blade between himself and Crowley. 

“ _ NO.”  _ Aziraphale’s voice boomed through the bookshop, and he felt the flexing of his angelic strength ripple through the air. Crowley stopped speaking then, cowed by Aziraphale’s raised voice, but his eyes stopped darting out the window and fixed on Aziraphale. 

“This is my home!” Aziraphale was shouting - not  _ at  _ Crowley, but for his sake. “And I won’t be chased out!”

All the curtains and blinds snapped closed and the shelves around them rumbled with the force of Aziraphale’s power, which filled the space around them like an electric charge.

“I am the Principality Aziraphale, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, and This. Is. My. Home.”

There was a moment of silence, during which the dust seemed to settle, and Aziraphale relaxed back into his standard posture. Crowley looked more relaxed than he’d seemed so far, letting his shoulders drop and his gaze rest on Aziraphale.

“This bookshop,” Aziraphale continued, his voice gentling as he addressed Crowley directly, “is perhaps the most strongly warded location on earth right now. No powers of Hell or Heaven are coming through this door, and if said powers choose to threaten us - well, I will admit I’ll miss walking in the park, but I’d be perfectly content to spend an eternity in here with you if we did find ourselves besieged by Host or Legion.”

Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath, then smiled at Crowley. The demon stumbled toward him, crumpling into his arms in a shaking mess, clinging to Aziraphale’s shoulders like a drowning man.

They held each other there for a long while, until Aziraphale tenderly lowered both of them onto the old, well-worn sofa, where Crowley curled up, his fingers interlaced with Aziraphale’s, his head resting against the angel’s chest.

Aziraphale still had no real clue where Crowley had been, or what had happened to him. He didn’t know what dangers were waiting beyond the bookshop’s door, or what his next steps ought to be. All of those were questions for later. Now, what mattered was that Crowley was here, home with him. 

Safe.

The dim afternoon sunlight that filtered through the blinds eventually became the blue dark of a city night, and Aziraphale felt his stomach rumble. Crowley was still nestled up against him, and was still and silent enough to be sleeping, though Aziraphale could tell that he was not. 

“I hate to leave you, dearest,” Aziraphale murmured, tousling Crowley’s long red curls with his fingers, “but I think I need a cup of tea, and perhaps a spot of supper.”

“ ‘f course, angel,” Crowley mumbled, shifting easily to let Aziraphale up off the couch.

Aziraphale made his way toward the kitchen, passing by the door that led to the back storeroom - 

“ _ Excuse me!? _ ” Aziraphale jumped back, one hand clutching at his vest, startled out of his wits by the sight of the  _ archangel fucking Gabriel _ , wearing some kind of potato sack, kneeling on the floor of his bookshop.

At the sound of Azirpahale’s voice, Gabriel looked up, his violet eyes wide and nervous. Aziraphale had never seen such an expression on Gabriel’s face before. He recalled Crowley’s warnings that the archangel had become a threat, but Gabriel looked nearly as hunted and frightened as Crowley had.

Perhaps it was some sort of angelic goodwill, or the fact that he had never known Gabriel to be good at lying or playacting, but it didn’t seem to Aziraphale that Gabriel had come here as his enemy. The fear and disorientation in the archangel’s eyes seemed as genuine as Crowley’s, and Aziraphale couldn’t sense any malice in Gabriel’s aura. 

_Was the same thing after both of them?_ _What in all the powers of the cosmos could have the Serpent of Eden and the Archangel Gabriel both so terrified?_

Aziraphale didn’t ask any of these questions. Instead, he just whispered “Gabriel! What are you doing here?” so as not to disturb Crowley.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Gabriel said, his voice shaky. “I - I didn’t - the back door was locked, and I didn’t think that I should - I didn’t know, I’m sorry.”

_ Sir? _ Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, his suspicions raised by the archangel’s strange behavior. “What on earth is going on? What have you done to Crowley?”

“Nothing! I - I mean - I don’t know! I’m sorry!”

“Sshh!” Aziraphale put a finger to his lips. Gabriel’s stuttering explanations were starting to get loud, and Aziraphale worried that Crowley might hear. Given how hard it had been to calm the demon, and how panicked Crowley had been about something to do with Gabriel, Aziraphale didn’t want Gabriel’s bizarre appearance and uninvited presence in the bookshop to set him off again. 

Gabriel shut his mouth immediately, looking like a scolded puppy expecting a kick across the ribs.

“Crowley’s, uh…” It occurred to Aziraphale that he probably ought not to tell the Archangel Gabriel that he had a demon dozing on his couch, even if said Archangel didn’t seem to be much in the mood for reporting fraternization violations to the Heavenly Council. “Well, I’d just rather not be overheard, if you don’t mind.”

Gabriel nodded, quick and desperate little movements that reminded Aziraphale of some type of bird. He’d never seen the archangel in such an submissive or obliging mood, and it made him feel uncomfortable.

“Alright, then, er,” Aziraphale said, reaching a hand down. “Up you get.”

Gabriel rose to his feet, giving Aziraphale a full picture of his outfit. It was not a potato sack, but an honest-to-goodness Biblical-era sackcloth. Aziraphale hadn’t seen one in a long, long time, and he felt a cold shiver at the back of his neck at the memories of women wailing, men rending their clothing. Of whole peoples beset by plague, fortresses crumbling into ruin, the cries of the prophets, and the stony silence that answered.

_ Why was Gabriel dressed that way? Even in ancient times, he always stuck to his Heavenly robes or the human fashions of the day. Did it have something to do with Crowley’s odd clothing? _

Aziraphale also saw that Gabriel had a bunch of notebooks tucked under one arm - notebooks Aziraphale recognized as Standard Issue Regulation Heavenly Record Books. And there was some sort of hard, rounded shape bulging inside one of the sackcloth’s pockets.

He wanted desperately to ask about the notebooks and the sackcloth, but the combination of shock and hunger made him default to his standard chatter. “I was just making myself some tea,” Aziraphale said as he led Gabriel into the kitchen. “Please, do sit there.”

Gabriel sat down at the little breakfast nook, looking stiff and out of place. He set the books down on the table and folded his hands in his lap, watching Aziraphale.

Aziraphale put the kettle on, using a small miracle to silence its whistle, then poured two cups before realizing what he was doing. Not wanting to let Gabriel know that Crowley was just in the other room, he took the second cup and placed it on the table next to the notebook. 

Gabriel gave the teacup an anxious look, then, before Aziraphale could stop him, grabbed it with one large hand and took a huge gulp. Gabriel winced at what had to be a painful burn and his eyes began watering.

“Oh dear, no!” Aziraphale took the teacup away and waved a hand over it, instantly cooling it to an appropriate temperature. “Terribly sorry. You mustn’t drink it when it’s too hot.” Aziraphale handed it back to Gabriel, who held it in both hands and stared at it as if it were a live grenade.

A moment passed, then, Aziraphale completely unsure what to do. He wanted to get to the bottom of this strange and awful situation. He wanted to ask Gabriel a thousand questions. He wanted to see what was contained inside those notebooks. But he also wanted to get back to Crowley, to find out more of what his beloved knew about Gabriel and his involvement, and to ensure that they were indeed safe with Gabriel in the bookshop.

“I’m just going to, er, check on something, if you please” Aziraphale said. He had been lying to Gabriel and the rest of Heaven for so long that it was somewhat second nature, even though it still made him nervous. Fortunately, his standard demeanor was just fidgety enough that it worked, and Gabriel never seemed to be the wiser. “Please, make yourself at home, but do stay in the kitchen. And try and keep quiet. Old books, you know.”

Aziraphale waved his hand around in a gesture that indicated he fully expected Gabriel to understand that old books required a quiet and solitude. The Archangel’s lack of knowledge about human and earthly reality meant that Aziraphale could often get away with this kind of diversion.

Sure enough, it worked. Gabriel nodded again, those birdlike movements that were so uncharacteristic Aziraphale wondered whether this even  _ was _ the archangel Gabriel, or some other creature who had attempted to take his form. 

As he left the kitchen, Aziraphale threw down a number of wards across the threshold of the doorway. They wouldn’t be enough to prevent Gabriel, or whoever was pretending to Gabriel, from leaving the kitchen - but it would certainly slow down any supernatural entity, and give Crowley and Aziraphale some warning.

With one steaming teacup cradled in his hands, and wishing he had remembered to grab some biscuits but not wanting to go back into the kitchen before consulting Crowley on this strange new discovery, Aziraphale headed back to the library. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DiP!Aziraphale tries to get answers out of Repo!Gabe. Failing that, well, he'll at least get something that he wants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short chapter mostly because I'm doing my best to follow my own pattern when it comes to POV shifts. Last chapter was from the POV of Repo!Aziraphale, and I planned for this next chapter to be from DiP!Aziraphale, so it's just a little chunk. Next chapter will be Gabe's POV and hopefully include both realities. I could be more disciplined and wait to post chapters until I get longer, more complete segments done, but this is just a spinoff goof for my darkfic server friends, so things just go up when I finish them. Plus then I get comments, which sustain me.

Aziraphale was growing frustrated. He had become accustomed to Gabriel’s obedience, but whoever this new creature was - whether it was, in fact, the archangel Gabriel whose memory had been altered, as Crowley thought at first; or whether it was some other being taking Gabriel’s form - they were certainly not very cooperative.

Which was unfortunate, since the stakes had been raised considerably, and Aziraphale knew he needed to find out the truth as soon as possible if he and Crowley were to survive. 

“Who are you?” Aziraphale was half-shouting now, trying not to let his desperation get the better of him as he wielded the whip.

“I’m the archangel fucking Gabriel!” Gabriel, now entirely nude, was still hanging by his wrists from the bar near the ceiling, his flesh streaked with blood and burns. He thrashed and kicked, snarling with animal rage, refusing to answer any of Aziraphale’s questions truthfully.

“Who gave you that watch?”

Gabriel turned his head slightly, looking at the thing on his wrist, then snapped his focus back to Aziraphale with a piercing glare. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me!” Aziraphale caught Gabriel across the face with the whip, leaving a brutal lash along his cheek. “Where did you get it? Who sent you here?”

Gabriel’s reply was a snorting breath out through his nose, like a charging bull, furious beyond words.

“It’s somewhat ironic,” Aziraphale mused, walking in a leisurely circle around his captive. “I spent so much time trying to teach Gabriel to keep his mouth shut, and now here you are, refusing to talk when I ask you.”

Gabriel made another indignant huff, following Aziraphale as much as he could with his eyes. 

Aziraphale continued his predatory pacing, trying to work out his next step. He needed to find out what was going on, and soon, if he was going to protect himself and Crowley. But this sort of interrogation was getting him nowhere.

He took a deep breath, twirling the whip in his hands and enjoying the frightened tension that rippled through Gabriel’s body. 

“Perhaps it’s time for a little break,” Aziraphale said, setting the whip down on his desk and sliding off the gloves. “It does get tiresome, being lied to.”

“I’m...not lying.” Gabriel’s speech was labored, his breaths heavy. 

Aziraphale sighed and snapped his fingers. Gabriel’s body fell in a heap to the floor, where the wrist cuffs instantly secured themselves, pinning him face down.

Wrinkling his nose at the mess of blood and sweat covering Gabriel’s now prone body, Aziraphale snapped his fingers again, cleaning the archangel up without healing him. He knelt down between Gabriel’s legs, running a possessive, claiming hand over his thighs and over the curve of his ass.

“What the FUCK are you doing?” Gabriel twisted and kicked, but was too weakened by the cuffs to do anything about Aziraphale’s slow, deliberate violation as the angel slid a finger between Gabriel’s cheeks.

If Aziraphale had any lingering doubts about whether this creature was not, in fact, the archangel he had been breaking down over the past few months, those doubts were dispelled immediately. Despite all of Gabriel’s whinging, his body, at least, had learned - learned to relax, to accept Aziraphale; had learned what was necessary to make everything go easier. For all of his faults, Gabriel had at least learned to obey, to submit.

But here, all Aziraphale found was resistance - muscles clenched so tightly they may as well have been stone; a passage that was fighting Aziraphale at every step of the way. 

Aziraphale chuckled, pressing against Gabriel even more forcefully. “They didn’t tell you about this, when they sent you down here in his place?” Gabriel squirmed, but Aziraphale held him fast, one hand on his hip, the other forcing its way slowly, slowly, inside. “Seems a bit unfair of them, if you ask me. Putting that watch on you, sending you to me so helpless, while Gabriel runs off free, don’t you think?”

Gabriel’s only response was a pained grunt.

“Makes me wonder why you’re still protecting them. Why you won’t tell me anything I need to know.”

Gabriel was still tense, his body like a taut string, his breath coming in shallow pants. Aziraphale had barely slid one finger into him, but he unzipped his trousers and settled in behind Gabriel, knowing that he would win this power struggle.

“No matter. I can still get what I want from you, whoever you are.” 

“Don’t you fucking dare.” The Gabriel-shaped being squirmed, trying to get away, feet kicking fruitlessly against the floor.

Aziraphale responded only with firm hushing noises, cupping one hand around Gabriel’s jaw, threatening to cover his mouth.

The archangel fought hard, doing everything in his limited power to prevent the inevitable. Aziraphale let all of his weight fall on Gabriel’s arms, holding him still and pressing on the tender spots where the cuffs had begun to burn and tear his skin. After his first few protests, Gabriel had stopped speaking, only letting out thin groans when Aziraphale gave a particularly brutal thrust. 

It was quite a different experience, Aziraphale had to admit; violent and dominating rather than the casual, possessive act he was used to with his Gabriel. And it had the intended effect - his frustration was subdued, his thinking clarified. He was still worried about whatever force (Heaven? Hell? _Who?_ ) had aligned with Gabriel to remove the watch and send this impostor to attack them, but it was hard to feel much fear like this, plunging deep into an unwilling captive, his own power undeniable, his body brimming with the heady pleasure of it all. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DiP!Gabriel is having a rough time. Repo!Gabriel is having an even rougher one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of internal narration in this chapter. My undergrad writing professor would hate this chapter. But something tells me that "intimately-close third person depictions of suffering" is exactly right for this fic's target demographic. Enjoy.

Crowley had run, and Aziraphale was running after him, and Gabriel had absolutely no idea what to do. He had come to the bookshop, like he was supposed to - or, he  _ thought _ he was supposed to. It seemed to him that he had been heading into the bookshop when he found himself strangely transported to the Heavenly door, but nothing made sense and now he wasn’t sure. He tried to check his watch, but the watch wasn’t there; it was gone, and he had no way of knowing where he was supposed to be or whether Aziraphale had called for him. 

Drawn by force of habit, Gabriel slipped inside the bookshop. He made his way toward the back room, but the door was locked. Frantic, Gabriel tugged at the knob.

What was he supposed to do?  _ Obey. Listen. _ Aziraphale had told him hundreds of times. But there had been no order, at least not that Gabriel could remember. Had he not been listening? Was he really this self-absorbed that he had missed so much critical instruction? 

As was often the case these days, Gabriel felt like his own mind was betraying him. Could angels go mad, like the humans did? It certainly seemed so. 

Coming up with no better solution, Gabriel knelt down in front of the locked door, holding the notebooks under one arm. The floor was cold and hard against his bare knees. He wondered briefly whether the sackcloth was too short, whether Aziraphale would be able to see up between his legs - then indulged in a dry, bitter chuckle at the realization that it really didn’t matter; he’d be undressed soon enough.

Or should he undress now? Gabriel shifted uncomfortably. No, not while he was still outside the room. Crowley was here, wasn’t he? It all felt like a test - Aziraphale often set him to difficult tasks like staying still or silent during his abuse - and he knew he couldn’t afford to fail. But everything was so opaque, now. No one had told him what to do.

He had never been so anxious to see Aziraphale, to be ordered around, to hear the angel’s supercilious demands. He even missed the watch - at least with it on, he had some signal about Aziraphale’s desires, some sense of when he was supposed to arrive. Even when Aziraphale was capricious and unpredictable, the watch at least was clear. 

Gabriel did not know how long he remained, kneeling, waiting. At one point, he heard the door to the bookshop close, and then the sound of raised voices. Aziraphale was upset. It made him cringe, made him want to shrink into nothingness and slink away.

But he knew better. There was no escape. To try would only doom him. 

And then, to Gabriel’s horror, he felt something - angelic power, the essence of holy righteousness, rippling through the bookshop, flexing outwards, letting anyone in the vicinity know that there was a powerful entity here, one who was fully prepared to go to war.

A few tears slipped down Gabriel’s face as he knelt there, paralyzed with terror. The message was clear: Aziraphale was letting him know just how thoroughly  _ fucked _ he was. 

Finally, Aziraphale showed up - seeming startled and surprised to see Gabriel. A fresh wave of nauseating fear ran through Gabriel, then. If Aziraphale hadn’t been expecting him, then it meant he wasn’t supposed to be here. It meant he would be in trouble for assuming, for overstepping. For eavesdropping. For...everything. 

Aziraphale led Gabriel into the kitchen, and the archangel felt even more off balance. He sat where Aziraphale directed him to, and it all felt strange, too strange, like the world was tilting along an axis Gabriel had not even known existed. It occurred to him that he had never actually sat on the furniture here before; only ever stood, or knelt on the floor, or - he repressed a shudder at the memories - bent over Aziraphale’s desk. 

Aziraphale was speaking, and Gabriel told himself to focus. There was hot water - Gabriel could see the steam, hear the bubbling hiss - and he tried to sense whether there was brimstone in the air, whether Aziraphale had somehow infused water with Hellfire, and then he realized it didn’t matter, he’d find out soon enough what Aziraphale had done and what he intended to do.

A cup, a cup of tea. For him. For him to drink. Gabriel wondered whether these were his last moments alive, whether something was about to burn and melt him from the inside out, and he had a thousand questions on his tongue, questions for Aziraphale, and for God, and questions for himself, about how he had ended up here, and whether he was really about to lift the boiling liquid to his own mouth and drink simply because it seemed to be what Aziraphale wanted.

But the answer was yes, of course it was yes, because  _ no _ was impossible, because  _ no _ would be so much worse, even if he couldn’t possibly imagine what that might mean; because Aziraphale was here handing him a cup of tea and to refuse Aziraphale was as futile as it was foolish.

So he drank it. And it hurt, it burned, but not like the Hellfire. He tried to choke back whatever noises threatened to erupt from his stinging throat. Aziraphale did not seem pleased, and when he shouted “No!” Gabriel felt something in him shatter, miserable frustration and shame piercing through him,  _ you’ve done it now, you failure, disobeyed, whatever happens next is all your fault _ \- and he braced himself for whatever was coming.

“You mustn’t drink it when it’s too hot,” Aziraphale said, and Gabriel nodded, soaking in the instructions, grateful for some clarity.  _ You mustn’t, you mustn’t _ . One more mustn’t - mustn’t speak, mustn’t resist, mustn’t drink it when it’s too hot. He wouldn’t. Now that he knew, now that he’d been told. He wouldn’t do anything Aziraphale had forbidden. It was easy enough, now, with Aziraphale here, giving orders, telling him what he wasn’t to do.

_He mustn’t._ So he wouldn’t. He’d be good. 

Aziraphale left, then, with one more admonition toward quiet. Gabriel didn’t need to be told that, but he was glad at least that Aziraphale had gone back to telling him what was expected. Perhaps he had passed the test, bringing Crowley home. Hope seemed a dangerous thing, but he let himself consider the brief possibility that he had perhaps managed to spare himself some horrible fate through his obedience, flawed and confused though it might have been.

Again, Aziraphale was gone for a long time. Gabriel remained exactly where he was. The notebooks he’d brought with him were spread out on the table, and he considered flipping through them, trying to find more clues, preparing for Aziraphale’s return. But he hadn’t been told to do so, and he didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize this baffling, though welcome, reprieve he’d somehow stumbled into.

The doorway Aziraphale had left through shimmered with some angelic magic. Gabriel could see it, could sense it, and he dared not test or examine it. Clearly, Aziraphale wanted him to stay right here, and Gabriel had no intention of doing anything else. 

And it wasn’t just whatever miracle Aziraphale had thrown into the doorway. The whole bookshop was practically ringing with the vibrations of angelic magics, and some other ones too - ones Gabriel didn’t recognize - which stood to reason, given that Aziraphale had managed to transcend his angelic limitations and reach levels of strength otherwise unknown.

It made the hairs on the back of Gabriel’s neck prickle, being surrounded by so much power. All it did was remind him of his own smallness, his own vulnerability in the face of it all. Once, he would have scoffed at such a display; would have trusted in his own Archangelic powers to carry the day. He shook that thought from his head, horrified. He couldn’t afford to let any of his past sinfulness catch up to him now. 

The sackcloth scratched at his skin and he tried not to move around much. His tongue and throat still hurt from the tea. But none of it was comparable to the torment of the cuffs, or the watch, or any of the other things Aziraphale made him endure. So he waited, trying to focus on his breath, doing his best to ignore the sackcloth’s insistent itchiness.

He ran over in his mind everything Aziraphale had said, everything Crowley had said, everything he had seen in the journals, trying to prepare for the angel’s return, doing his best to predict what Aziraphale might want when he came back. He rehearsed his penance litany. He rubbed the part of his jaw that often got sore when he was...serving his penance, wanting to make sure he was fully ready to perform. To please. To impress.

When Aziraphale did come back downstairs, he stopped just on the other side of the doorway, keeping the shimmering wards between himself and Gabriel. His arms were crossed, and he looked unhappy. Gabriel swallowed hard, reminding himself to stay calm, to not descend into the babbling chatter that Aziraphale hated so much.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and glanced around the kitchen, as if he was considering just what to say. Gabriel waited, perched on the hard kitchen chair, until the angel spoke.

“I’ve just received a very strange and concerning message from the demon Crowley, about some of your activities as of late. But his version of events doesn’t seem to account for your appearance here today, so I’d rather like to hear your side of the story.”

All of Gabriel’s mental preparation fell away as his thoughts became a racing jumble. He tried to remember Aziraphale’s rules.  _ Always answer a direct question _ \- but had that been a question? Was this a test? It had to be a test. This whole thing, somehow, orchestrated by Aziraphale, to trap him; or maybe by Her, to save him. To give him a chance to be saved. If he did the right thing. Followed the rules. What were the rules?

He didn’t have much longer. Aziraphale was looking at him, expectant. 

It hadn’t been a question, he decided. Gabriel lifted a shaking finger to his lips, praying that he had guessed Aziraphale’s intentions correctly. 

“This whole place is warded - we can speak freely,” Aziraphale said.

Speak freely - well that was permission, clear enough. Flooded with relief, Gabriel dropped his hand back to his lap and gathered his thoughts to speak. “I - I was coming here, to you, like you wanted - I mean, I think I did, I don’t have the watch anymore - I’m sorry, I don’t know why - but I wasn’t here, I was somewhere else, and Crowley was there, and he was hurt, he’d been - someone hurt him, and I didn’t know what to do, so I took him, and - and we were in Heaven, so we went to my office, but it wasn’t my office, it was different - I’m sorry…”

Gabriel trailed off, watching Aziraphale’s reaction, feeling like his breath was frozen inside his chest. He expected to be thoroughly chastised, and then much worse, for losing the watch. For not knowing whether he was supposed to be at the bookshop. For talking such nonsense like  _ it was my office but it wasn’t my office _ \- even as he said it, he knew it didn’t make sense, and he felt ashamed of himself for his own stupidity, his own confusion, for making Aziraphale listen to all that, for not being able to answer a simple question.

But Aziraphale didn’t scold him, didn’t thrash him, didn’t do anything but tilt his head slightly, as if to indicate that he was still listening, and ask “And then what happened? In your office?”

Gabriel could only stare at Aziraphale for a moment, processing the fact that he wasn’t being punished, but rather, invited to continue speaking. 

“Um,” he began, then snapped his mouth shut, taking a beat before trying again. “Well, he was hurt, and I - I tried to heal him. I used miracles on him, even though he’s a demon, I mean, he’s yours, he’s your demon, but I - I just wanted to help.”

At this, Aziraphale’s eyes widened into an expression Gabriel couldn’t quite identify. But he didn’t say anything, just waited for Gabriel to go on.

“He had a, a collar, some kind of thing, on him.” Gabriel took the device out of his pocket and showed it to Aziraphale. “I found a booklet about it. I took it off him, it seemed like it was hurting him, and I - I didn’t know, I didn’t know what you wanted, I brought it here, if you want - if I’m supposed - if you want to put it back on him.”

Aziraphale turned a few shades paler, then, and Gabriel again braced for a deluge of violence. 

“Thank you,” is all Aziraphale said, his voice strained. “And then...you brought him here?”

Gabriel nodded, then realized he hadn’t told the whole story. “Or, well, not right away. Time was, it was, sort of stopped, I mean - everything was frozen. Everything in Heaven, at least. And I found these old journals -” Gabriel held up one of the notebooks to show Aziraphale, and the angel interrupted him.

“Old? What made you think they were old?”

Gabriel looked at the notebook in his hand, then back to Aziraphale. Another question. One less open-ended. One with a right answer. And a wrong answer. Can’t be wrong. Wrong makes things worse. Being wrong means being punished. 

He thought for a moment. Aziraphale knew Heaven, knew how they operated. He would know how the notebooks worked. So why was he asking? Would it make him angry, Gabriel explaining something that he surely already knew? Was that just more proof of Gabriel’s condescending nature? Or did Aziraphale think Gabriel was hiding part of the story, withholding something from him? What was the trick, here? Gabriel had to pass the test, but he didn’t understand what it was. All he could do was tell the truth. 

“Well, er…” Gabriel held up the journal again, closer to Aziraphale, who seemed completely unwilling to step across the doorway and join Gabriel in the kitchen. “Heaven issues these notebooks, you know - Standard Regulation Issue, just like everything else - and they use a new version every few years, give or take. These ones, I saw, they were from around the millennium, the most recent one, the year two thousand - about thirty years ago.”

Aziraphale was looking at him with an intent curiosity that made Gabriel feel very, very nervous. 

“Gabriel,” the angel said, “forgive me, but will you permit me a rather odd question? When do you think - I mean to say, that is...Could you tell me, please, what year is it?”

***

Hurt, everything  _ hurt _ , hurt like he’d never known before. Gabriel watched, his vision swimming, as Aziraphale circled him like prey. He’d done the same thing to Crowley, many times - taken in the demon’s suffering form, thought carefully through his next move. Let the pain linger, without the distraction of a fresh lashing; let the fact of his own power sink in. 

_ You’re there, and I’m here. You’re hurting, and I’m doing it.  _

It was an easy enough game to play, and not even that hard to win. How long had it taken to break Crowley down, make him pliant and pathetic? Gabriel was not impressed with Aziraphale, though the angel seemed inordinately pleased with himself. Any idiot could swing a whip.

And this idiot sure was swinging his. Even now, as Aziraphale stalked in circles, during the break in the beating, Gabriel could feel nothing but the lines of the whip where it had torn the flesh of his corporation open. It set him aflame with agony, and he knew it had to be some kind of infernal magic, infused with Hellfire, to feel like this. Crowley must have helped him do it - that vile little snake, that disgusting piece of demon filth - must have planned this, somehow. 

Rage coursed through Gabriel, pounding in time with his heart, which he could feel; his pulse ringing in his ears, the blood in his veins screaming out. Where was that little sneak? Whatever had come down and toyed with him earlier certainly wasn’t  _ his _ Crowley, wasn’t the creature he had so carefully broken and molded. 

Gabriel thought of Crowley, of the confident, indignant attitude he’d taken this morning, and how different it was from the cowed, properly tamed demeanor Gabriel had beaten into him. He shouldn’t have been able to get the collar off. Shouldn’t have been able to do any of this. So what had happened? Someone had fucked up. Badly. Gabriel would see to it that every last asshole in Heavenly Technology paid for this, for whatever mistake had landed him here, paid in blood and tears and humiliation ten times over. 

Gabriel shook his head a bit, trying to clear the blood and sweat from his eyes. Aziraphale had left his field of vision, and he craned his neck to follow the angel’s movements. He didn’t like to feel like prey caught in a trap; didn’t appreciate the way Aziraphale lingered behind him, tapping the whip into his palm is if considering the next stroke. 

He was asking questions again, questions Gabriel didn’t understand and didn’t care much about. Aziraphale seemed to think Gabriel was someone else, and that he’d been sent here by someone. And he kept talking about a watch. Gabriel scoffed, half listening. The moron must have figured something out about the collar, and Heaven’s plans, and convinced himself he knew everything.

When really, he was a half-wit who had the misfortune of stumbling into Gabriel’s path, thinking he could stop an archangel. Not only that, but a half-wit willing to stoop low enough to shack up with a demon whore like Crowley. 

He’d pay for it. Pay for everything.

But right now, he was making the mistake of trying to subdue Gabriel. 

Right now, he was hurting Gabriel. And it hurt, it did. It hurt. Aziraphale started in again with the whip, and the questions, and Gabriel’s thoughts, though no less violent and vengeful, grew strained and scattered as new agonies tore through him. He wanted it to stop, to stop, he needed it to stop. Just for a minute. 

He wasn’t weak. He was a soldier, an archangel, one of the Host, and he would not be brought down by a mere whipping.

But it hurt, it did. It hurt, and it hurt, and Gabriel twisted and hollered, desperate for a break, focused on nothing but relief. 

Aziraphale asked him another question, and Gabriel screamed an answer back at him, true and defiant, but it didn’t stop, he didn’t stop, and then Gabriel stopped hearing the angel shouting, knew the questions didn’t matter, nothing mattered, except that it hurt, and it hurt, and it wouldn’t stop, and then it stopped, and he was on the floor, and it still hurt but the whipping had stopped, and Aziraphale was talking, and Gabriel lifted his head and saw nothing but the red of his own blood and heard the wheezing complaints of his stupid corporation, and he tried to get up but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to go.

Aziraphale was touching him, then, and a monstrous realization ripped through Gabriel’s consciousness. 

No. He won’t. He can’t.

_ I am the archangel fucking Gabriel. _

Gabriel fought, and he snarled, and he would have sawn his own wrists down to the bone, and still Aziraphale did, he did it, he did to Gabriel what shouldn’t have been possible, what couldn’t happen but did.

It hurt, and it hurt, and Gabriel could hardly breathe for how it hurt, and he knew the humans did this, but why, why,  _ why _ ? 

Aziraphale was on top of him, and Gabriel felt as if he were being crushed, as if the entire city of Jericho was coming down on him, and he wished it was, wished it were sun-warmed bricks on his shoulders and dust in his mouth, and it hurt, and it hurt, and it  _ hurt _ .

Was this what Crowley felt? It couldn’t have been. Couldn’t have been this bad. Made no sense. Otherwise the demon would never have let him. Would have fought, tooth and nail, damn the collar. Wouldn’t have given in the way he did. No. He was an angel. It was different. Crowley was a demon. Made for it. Gabriel couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it was like this, not after the way Crowley had arched and whimpered and bargained it away. Gabriel wasn’t a whore like Crowley, so that’s why it hurt, it hurt, it hurt.

Gabriel closed his eyes, his hands clawing at the carpet, and he bit down on his own lip, daring it to break, daring himself to draw blood. He heard Aziraphale’s panting above him, the cruel taunts of the angel in his ear, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that as soon as he had the chance, Aziraphale would pay, would pay, would find himself so twisted by Gabriel’s reckoning that he wouldn’t recognize his own soul if She gave him the chance, and of course She wouldn’t, She wouldn’t, She couldn’t, not after this. 

He’d make sure of it.

Aziraphale finished -  _ oh, sunshine, you’re more than finished _ \- then left Gabriel, a wretched pile of limbs on the floor, tidying up behind him as he went. And when Gabriel was alone, in the dark, it hurt, it still hurt, it hurt.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Repo!Aziraphale now has two very traumatized beings in his house. DiP!Aziraphale has a being in his house that he very much wants to traumatize.

“Crowley, I need to speak with you about something.” Aziraphale pushed open the bedroom door, his heart heavy. He hated to have to bring anything to Crowley besides comfort and love, but it was clear that the nightmare they’d found themselves in was far from over, and he needed Crowley on his side. 

Crowley was curled up on the bed, his slender body crowded up on the very edge of the bed, on top of the bedclothes, as if he were afraid to muss anything up; afraid to take up space. Aziraphale sighed. His beloved demon used to sprawl across the bed, used to snuggle and tangle himself up in the sheets, and now he just looked small and stiff and sad. 

At least Aziraphale had gotten him changed out of the weird, oversized clothing he’d arrived in - upon closer inspection, it seemed to be one of Gabriel’s jogging suits - and into his black silk pajamas, complete with warm socks. But even those hardly had a wrinkle, draped over Crowley’s form without a wrinkle, as if he had barely moved since getting dressed.

Crowley wasn’t sleeping, and his eyes followed Aziraphale as he entered the room and sat down on the bed beside him. Aziraphale sighed. “Darling,” he began, “I’m afraid that whatever awful thing has happened to you, there’s someone else who’s also been grievously harmed, and has shown up here seeking shelter.”

Crowley sat up then, his eyes wide. “Another demon?”

“Well, no, not exactly.” Aziraphale fought the urge to fidget by wrapping his arms around Crowley, who accepted the embrace without returning it. “It seems...well, it’s someone who...er, has also taken the form of the archangel Gabriel.”

Crowley jerked away, then, his posture like a coiled spring. “No. Here? Aziraphale -  _ no _ .” The demon stood up quickly, stumbling for a moment before catching his balance, then began to pace frantically. “Angel, you can’t - it’s a trap, a trick, he’s done something - listen, Aziraphale, he’s - he’s not - we have to go, you have to go, Alpha Centauri, somewhere, anywhere -”

Aziraphale interrupted Crowley as gently as he could. “It’s not him, Crowley. Not...he’s not the monster who hurt you.”

Crowley rubbed his face in frustration. “You don’t understand. He’s powerful, more than anyone, he - he can stop time, he - he’s willing to - he’s tricking you, angel, he’s trying to get you too, and I can’t, you can’t, you  _ can’t _ .” 

Crowley’s voice cracked, his eyes crinkled and glistening. “I didn’t go through - I didn’t do - all of it, angel, not for you to end up...after all that. I can’t. Please.”

Aziraphale had never heard Crowley sound like this before. Sure, Crowley had asked him for things before. Had wheedled, teased, cajoled. Had made requests, even the occasional demand. But to see him pleading, begging, to hear the helpless desperation in his voice...Aziraphale could hardly bear it.

“I know, Crowley,” he soothed, reaching out to pull Crowley back into his arms. It was a lie - he didn’t know, didn’t know the half of what Crowley had endured, didn’t have a clue, but he had to say something, and there was nothing adequate, no word sufficient to hold all of the love, and the sorrow, he felt in that moment. “I know.” He rubbed circles over the demon’s back, feeling the knobs of Crowley’s spine, bones that had never been so prominent before. 

“But…” Aziraphale held Crowley out a bit from himself so that he could look into his eyes, though Crowley seemed unable to meet his gaze for longer than a split second. “I also know that it’s not him. I… he let me… I looked, Crowley, I saw.”

Aziraphale felt his own voice crack, then, felt something in his throat that threatened to erupt, but he forced it back down. He would be strong for Crowley, here and now, and later would find a way to make sense of what he had seen when Gabriel let him inside his mind.

He had hated to do it, hated to ask something so intimate of a creature who seemed helpless to decline - but it was necessary. As much empathy as he felt for this shell-shocked being who looked like his boss, his first loyalty was to Crowley, and he’d needed to ensure that this wasn’t a trick intended to lure him into an admission that would doom his beloved.

And so, after learning that Gabriel thought it was 2019, and that he seemed to have an entirely different perspective on the fundamental nature of their relationship, Aziraphale had asked permission to do something deeply intimate, something angels rarely did without incredible amounts of trust. As he suspected, Gabriel acquiesced, and when Aziraphale touched his forehead to the other angel’s, he found Gabriel’s inner truths laid bare, a raw and naked surrender that made Aziraphale blush.

But there was so much pain, and shame, and fear, spiked through it all, that Aziraphale could hardly parse what he saw. It was like trying to read a book through a cracked kaleidoscope. He saw Crowley, but nothing that seemed at all like the events described in the journals Gabriel had presented. He saw himself, or some twisted facsimile, engaged in cruelties that turned his stomach. He saw the bookshop, looking tidier and more modern than it ever had; and he saw the halls of Heaven, but through the eyes of Gabriel, they loomed like an unfriendly labyrinth. 

“Trust me. Whoever he is, whatever he is, he’s as much a victim as you.”

Crowley said nothing in response. He didn’t appear to be convinced, but he seemed defeated, drained, too exhausted to argue.

Aziraphale tugged him close, rocking his body slightly. “It means that Gabrie, the Gabriel who did this to you, he’s still...out there, somewhere. And so is...whoever harmed the angel downstairs.” 

He felt Crowley constrict with fear at that last phrase, at the reminder that there was a third being in the house with them, that someone with his tormentor’s name and face had made it past the wards.

“But,” Aziraphale continued, trying to sound reassuring and confident, “we’re safe here. All of us. The wards are stronger than anything, and we’ll boost them as often as we can. You’re safe, you’re alright. I’ve got you now.”

Crowley was clinging to him, his body limp, his hands clutching Aziraphale’s clothing, and he was crying now, great sobs as Aziraphale rocked him, stroked his hair, murmured assurances in his ear. “You’re home, it’s alright, you’re safe. I’m here now.”

At long last, Crowley fell asleep, and though Aziraphale was loath to leave him alone, he was also acutely aware that he had left Gabriel downstairs. Aziraphale tucked Crowley under the covers, taking care to position him in the center of the bed, surrounded by pillows, looking as cozy as possible.

He gathered the jogging suit from the floor and waved a hand over it, a small miracle to turn the fabric clean and fresh and neatly folded, then carried them downstairs. Gabriel was still in the kitchen, his posture reminiscent of Crowley’s on the bed - tense, rigid, alert. 

“Alright,” Aziraphale said, clearing his throat. He stepped across the kitchen threshold, dropping the wards, now fully convinced that this Gabriel posed no threat. He set the clean clothes on the kitchen table and sat down across from Gabriel. “Now, I must speak with you about something rather..sensitive.”

Gabriel nodded. 

“Earlier, when I told you that I’d received a message from the demon Crowley, I’m afraid that was not entirely accurate.”

Gabriel remained silent, but was watching Aziraphale with full, piercing focus. It occurred to Aziraphale that he’d never had Gabriel’s undivided attention like this before. He always felt rushed when speaking to Gabriel, as if the Archangel was about to dismiss him at any moment. But this Gabriel seemed to be hanging on his every word.

“I haven’t been forthcoming with Heaven about this, for reasons of safety more than propriety, but I have to inform you now that the demon Crowley has become my - er, I believe the humans are calling it a “domestic partnership.” We keep a room here together. Will that be a problem for you?”

“No! Of course - I mean, I know, you love him, he’s - it’s - it’s good, it’s right, She approves.”

After so many years of hiding it, of fearing the worst if Heaven ever found out about their clandestine relationship, Aziraphale couldn’t help his stunned reaction. “Really?” 

“Yes! I mean - I don’t - not that I - it isn’t - not that I speak for Her -” Gabriel slid from his seat and crumpled to his knees on the floor, trembling, looking up at Aziraphale with frightened eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, a near whisper. “I didn’t mean - it’s not my place - I’m sorry, please…”

Aziraphale felt sick again, the memories of what he’d seen inside Gabriel’s mind roiling inside him like a bad chowder. “It’s alright, it’s alright.” He left his own seat and crouched beside Gabriel, trying to gauge whether this would comfort Gabriel or terrify him further. Seeing his boss - the imperious, aloof, self-righteous archangel - reduced to a sniveling heap on his kitchen floor was incredibly strange, and Aziraphale felt like good old Peter, wandering out onto stormy seas with no clue whether his next step would find solid footing. “Gabriel, listen.”

The archangel snapped his head up, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze, his eyes full of despair.

“I’m...I’m terribly sorry, for what you’ve been through. And I want to assure you that, despite all appearances, I am not, in any way, the same person who did those monstrous things to you.”

Gabriel looked confused, but he was still listening intently, his eyes locked on Aziraphale’s.

“I’m not quite sure how, or why, or what’s been happening - I must say, it’s all rather ineffable - but you are safe here. As long as you pose no threat to Crowley or myself” - at this, Gabriel shook his head, his lips silently mouthing the words  _ no, no, never _ \- “and as long as you remain behind these wards, with us, you’re safe. No one can hurt you - no one will hurt you.”

Gabriel seemed to be processing this slowly, confusion and relief flickering across his features. 

Aziraphale reached over to Gabriel, intending to take him by the hand and guide him up from the floor, but the archangel did something he didn’t expect in response. Instead of meeting Aziraphale’s gesture, he left his hands where they were, flat on his knees, and leaned in to Aziraphale with his head like a stray cat trying to be pet. 

“I - er, oh,” was all Aziraphale could say, as he felt Gabriel’s hair under his fingers. Suddenly the Archangel was bent low, his head pressed up against Aziraphale’s touch, and Aziraphale was patting his back, feeling very awkward. He reminded himself that, though he didn’t understand it, this being was not the Gabriel he knew, not the haughty and sometimes cruel archangel who would saw off his own left wing before being caught crying in the lap of a subordinate.

“You’re okay, you’re safe now,” Aziraphale said, wishing for some clarity, some guidance, some sense of what on earth to do. He wasn’t entirely sure that Gabriel was safe - just like Crowley, the creature who had done this to him remained at large, somewhere within the vastness of the cosmos, and Aziraphale didn’t have much sense for how to address that - but that was a question for later.

Here, in the warded bookshop, with Crowley asleep upstairs and some other world’s Gabriel reduced to a timid mess, all Aziraphale could do was meet the moment in front of him, and right now, that meant trying to comfort this familiar-faced stranger who had ended up on his doorstep in need of help. After some time, Gabriel sniffled and shivered, gathering himself for a moment before straightening up and wiping his eyes. 

Aziraphale did want to get back to Crowley, and he wanted to start looking into what his books might have to say about the strange events of the day, and so, now that Gabriel had relaxed a bit, Aziraphale guided them both up to standing. “Now, then,” he said, handing the jogging clothes to Gabriel, “if you’re going to be staying here while we figure all this out, we ought to get you comfortable. I’ll set up the spare room for you.”

Aziraphale unlocked the door to the back room and pushed it open, inhaling what had to be decades worth of dust. He lifted his hand to snap and perform a miracle that would clear out the space and make it fit for a guest - but something hit him in the gut like a suckerpunch from a cherub.

That desk. Those shelves. 

It had been this room - this part of the bookshop - where Gabriel suffered unspeakable atrocities at the hands of - of - 

“Er, rather, I’m sorry…” Aziraphale turned to Gabriel, who was standing behind him, gingerly holding the jogging suit as if it might burn him, and staring into the back room with an ashen face. “Let’s not - I mean, I’m sure we can scare up a place for you upstairs.” 

***

Aziraphale had left Gabriel alone for a bit, having gotten all he wanted from the archangel for a while, and spent some time with Crowley. The demon was, understandably, quite shaken by the day’s events, and much more willing to accept Aziraphale’s attention and care.

It was nice, now that Crowley believed him, now that he understood - perhaps he would even be grateful for the steps Aziraphale had taken to protect him - and so, while he was understandably upset by the fact that Gabriel had threatened him so aggressively, he seemed more present to Aziraphale, more like his old self.

Sure, there was still a rogue archangel out there, and he would absolutely need to be dealt with - but they had the wards, and the hellfire blade, and control of the prisoner their enemies had made the mistake of sending to them, and so Aziraphale felt quite comfortable leaving the nasty problem alone for a few hours so he could enjoy time with his husband. 

And so they had a lovely evening together, watching some of Crowley’s television programming, eating a takeout supper together by candlelight. Occasionally, Crowley’s eyes would swivel over to the back room door, and Aziraphale felt anger well in him at the absolute nerve, at any powers out there who dared to disturb his beloved, at the wretched thing behind the door that distracted Crowley, pulled his attention from his own husband.

But Aziraphale brushed it off, turning his focus to Crowley, cracking a joke or pouring another glass of wine, ensuring that the night was as smooth and sweet as a vintage port. 

And when Crowley finally drifted off to sleep, drunk and smiling, having enjoyed a leisurely orgasm under Aziraphale’s skilled touch, it was the perfect cap to the day.

Which meant the night could begin.

Aziraphale returned to the backroom to find his captive a raving mess. 

“Where is he?” Gabriel snarled, lifting his head to shout at Aziraphale as soon as the angel entered the room. “Where is my demon? You tell him - he knows better than this, I know, because I taught him - you tell him I’m no fool, you tell him he’ll regret this until the seas boil and the -”

“Oh, shut up.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the archangel went fully silent, his voice ripped away by a well practiced miracle. Aziraphale didn’t bother to hide his satisfied grin at the expression on Gabriel’s face, one of horror and disbelief, as he opened his mouth, moved his useless jaw in a futile attempt to scream. It was a pathetic display of impotence, and Aziraphale only clucked his tongue at Gabriel’s soundless tantrum.

“Now, then.” He made his way to the desk and pulled on the gloves, then picked up the whip. “Our little moment of  _ connection _ earlier gave me an idea.”

Gabriel glared at him, his nostrils flaring in rage, as Aziraphale bent down beside his prone and naked body.

“You know things, things I very much need to know as well, and for some reason, you’re refusing to answer my very simple questions.”

Aziraphale set the whip on the floor, enjoying the way Gabriel’s eyes followed it fearfully, then ran his hands over the mess of welts, lashes, and burns that littered the archangel’s back. 

“But as I’ve already established with your predecessor, I don’t actually need you able to speak to be useful.”

Aziraphale’s hand made its way up Gabriel’s neck, onto his head, grabbing his hair twisting until the archangel winced.

“If you won’t tell me what I want to know, then you’re just going to have to  _ show _ me.” Aziraphale pulled Gabriel’s head up from the floor and leaned down, drawing his forehead close to Gabriel’s sweat-soaked and blood-streaked face.

Gabriel started shaking his head, mouthing silent words of refusal, but Aziraphale just smiled. “I was wondering whether you’d put up a fight like this.”

With that, he picked up the whip and, taking the narrow tip between two gloved fingers, slid the whip under one of Gabriel’s thighs, tugging it up between his legs like the string-floss underwear he liked Crowley to wear sometimes.

Gabriel kicked and squirmed, but Aziraphale just yanked it harder, dragging the whip over the sensitive flesh until most of its length had passed through, giving him enough to wrap around Gabriel’s neck while keeping the wider base of the hell-infused leather pressed up against Gabriel’s ass and balls.

Gabriel’s mouth opened and closed like a gasping fish, but no sound came out. His face turned red, then purple; his neck scorching with livid burns under the whip. When Aziraphale felt that he had been sufficiently weakened, he put one hand on Gabriel’s head, forcing it down against the floor, then pressed his own forehead against Gabriel’s head.

The archangel was still trying to keep Aziraphale out of his thoughts, away from his memories - continued to resist this psychic violation with every ounce of his remaining strength - but that strength was dwindling fast, and Aziraphale was able to make his way past Gabriel’s defenses. 

What he saw was difficult to make out clearly - every image spiked through with Gabriel’s fury and his attempts to fight Aziraphale - but Aziraphale had enough experience piecing together damaged, faded manuscripts to figure it out. He saw Gabriel inflicting savagery on Crowley, felt the smug sadism that drove the archangel, and he felt a deep sense of vindication. He had always known something was rotten inside Gabriel, and the world was lucky that Aziraphale had the brains and courage to root it out. 

He saw himself as Gabriel perceived him - weak, timid, useless - and it made him sick. But he also saw other things - a different version of the bookshop, some odd inconsistencies in Heaven - and slowly, a picture began to form, one that made perfect sense, one that hadn’t occurred to him until now.

“Interesting.” Aziraphale pulled his head away and let go of Gabriel, who was limp and motionless on the floor, exhausted from losing the mental battle, still wrapped in the burning whip. Aziraphale grabbed the whip handle and yanked, digging friction burns into the already deep wounds the whip itself had already caused, then coiled it neatly and replaced it in the desk.

He left the silencing miracle on, then made his way into the bookshop, quite clear on what his next step would be. 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has figured it out. Crowley is lost. Angst ensues.

Aziraphale had explained it to him at least a half dozen times by now, but it still made no sense. Then again, very little made much sense these days. Crowley’s mind felt perpetually muddled, fuzzy, as if clear thoughts were like slippery little fish that darted beyond his grasp.

Back in Heaven, he’d attributed this inner crumbling to the collar, its endless buzzing rendering him weakened and cut off from critical aspects of his self - but now the collar was gone, and he still felt distant, disconnected.

Maybe that’s why Gabriel had removed the collar. Because he’d found a way to keep Crowley subdued without it.

Or maybe this was just what he was, now. Maybe the long stretches of isolation punctuated by excruciating pain had fractured him so badly that he would simply never be the same.

Crowley wasn’t sure which was the more terrifying prospect.

But if he couldn’t trust his own mind, and he had no idea what game the archangel was playing at, he had no choice but to try, at least, to listen to Aziraphale. 

They were downstairs in the living room, sitting beside each other on the overstuffed sofa. Crowley had permitted Aziraphale to draw him close, one arm around the demon’s shoulders, but he kept shooting nervous glances up to the closed door of the guest room, knowing he’d need to instantly remove himself from Aziraphale’s embrace the moment Gabriel appeared.

“You said Gabriel can stop time, is that right?” Aziraphale asked him.

Crowley nodded, his throat feeling tight. The easy, casual way Aziraphale seemed able to discuss the archangel and his awful powers made him uncomfortable. 

“And I, er, discovered that he seems to believe that it’s the year 2019, but for us, it’s only 2000. Early 2000, at that.”

Now that couldn’t be right. Crowley had been  _ taken _ in early 2000. But he’d been trapped in Heaven for months, at the very least.

Something was very, very wrong. 

Perhaps…

Horror ran cold in his veins as it occurred to him that perhaps this creature, speaking with him on the sofa, was not Aziraphale. 

If Gabriel could stop time, if he could manufacture technology capable of fully incapacitating a demon as powerful as Crowley, what else could he do?

Was this all some elaborate trap to catch Aziraphale? To trick Crowley into letting his guard down and admitting to their relationship?

He’d slept in the bed. He’d let Aziraphale hold him. He’d said…

_ God, no. Please, no. _

“Aziraphale,” Crowley choked out, his voice thin. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Anything, dearest.”

Crowley did his best to ignore the pet name. “Do - do you remember…” Crowley paused, frantically wracking his useless brain for something Gabriel couldn’t possibly know. He had planned to ask about their spot in St. James Park, but Gabriel had shown him those photos, they were watching, they might know everything.

“Hm?” Aziraphale tilted his head, and the look on his face was so gentle, so patient, that Crowley thought there was no way Gabriel could accomplish it, and a desperate hope fluttered in him.

“Uh, do you remember, what we ate - back in Rome, remember, I’d just gotten into town, and you invited me to -”

“Oysters, of course. How could I forget?” Aziraphale smiled at the memory, but then his expression took on a concerned frown. “Are you alright, Crowley?”

There was no uncomplicated answer to that question, but Crowley let out a relieved sigh. “No - I mean yes - I mean, I just...wanted to check something.”

“It’s a good thought,” Aziraphale mused, looking distant as he worked something out in his mind. “If we’re dealing with different timelines, then - but no, you and I are still the same, to each other. It seems to be only Gabriel who...Hmmm…”

Aziraphale trailed off, lost in thought, his fingers moving through the air as if he were working something out on an invisible chalkboard.

“Oh.” Aziraphale, having apparently come to a private conclusion, jolted upright on the sofa. “Let me consult something.”

Aziraphale stood, and Crowley rose too.

“No, dear, you stay comfy - I just need to go get a book, of sorts.”

“If it’s all the same, angel, I’d rather stick by you.” Crowley felt silly saying so - like a needy child, clinging to his mother’s skirts - but with Gabriel in the house, even if Aziraphale insisted he was perfectly safe, Crowley didn’t want to let Aziraphale out of his sight. 

“Of course! Come with me.”

Crowley watched, his hands in his pockets, feeling useless, as Aziraphale made his way over to a far corner of the library, then dragged a stepstool out from some hidden nook and climbed on top of it, reaching up to a very high shelf to pull down a heavy book bound in dark leather. He blew some dust off it, then sneezed a few times.

Despite all his confusion and exhaustion and fear, Crowley couldn’t help but smile at the high-pitched little noise the angel made when he sneezed. 

“There we are.” Aziraphale stepped clumsily off the stool and returned to the sofa, where Crowley immediately took up his position beside him, his long legs tucked up under himself, nestled under the antique quilt that Aziraphale always kept here for that purpose.

Crowley hadn’t felt this warm for...well, for as long as he’d been imprisoned in that cold, dark, miserable cell. 

“This isn’t exactly a book,” Aziraphale explained, running his hand over the cover as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to open it. “It’s more like...a conduit. To other worlds, or, more accurately, other versions of our world.”

“Uh huh.” Crowley didn’t really understand, but then again, he hadn’t understood much ever since a bunch of Heavenly brutes had abducted him from his own home and slapped a collar on him.

“A copy of this book, supposedly, exists in every alternate reality. Anyone in possession of such an object can communicate with other book holders, though you’d need to know what it is and how to use it.”

Aziraphale opened the cover experimentally, revealing an inner cover of marbled paper that, upon further inspection, was moving, shifting, an infinitely changing swirl of muted color. 

“Based on what I saw in Gabriel’s mind, I have reason to believe that I - or, rather, some other iteration of myself - is involved. If he, like me, has this book, and if he has discovered that there has been some sort of overlap between his world and mine, it’s possible he’ll have the same idea.”

Alternate realities? Another Aziraphale? 

Crowley’s head was spinning. It seemed that, after an interminable stretch of days that trudged along in much the same way. The agony of his captivity had at least been somewhat predictable. Gabriel, cruel as he was, always wanted the same thing. 

Now every single second brought with it some new whiplash change, from Gabriel revealing that time was stopped to Aziraphale trying to tell him about magic books and portals to other worlds. 

Crowley could hardly keep up. He was so tired. He just wanted to rest.

Aziraphale turned the page, revealing nothing but blank paper. Crowley couldn’t tell whether the little exhalation from the angel was relief or disappointment.

Carefully, slowly, Aziraphale turned the page. Still blank. Crowley felt himself relax a little bit. 

Maybe this would all turn out to be simpler than they thought. Maybe the being Aziraphale had in the guest room was just some demon, sent by Hell to rescue Crowley, taking the form of Gabriel for the sake of the mission.

Or maybe he was just an apparition. Maybe none of this was real. Maybe Crowley was dreaming. Maybe the collar was malfunctioning. Maybe he had been rescued, or escaped, but had forgotten how. 

After all, stranger things had happened. An angel falling in love with him on Earth, for one. Another angel enslaving him in Heaven, for another.

Crowley figured he’d get through this the same way he’d gotten through his time with Gabriel...because he had no other choice. Every minute was succeeded by another minute, and he’d live through them in sequence, enduring whatever there was to endure.

He’d cling to the small moments of comfort, or peace, or simply the absence of pain. He’d do what he could to protect himself. He’d let go of anything he couldn’t carry and find a way to guard the rest.

He’d get through, even if the only thing dragging him through the ordeal was the simple, steady passage of time.

He’d survive because he could not die, and sometimes that was enough, and sometimes it was all he had.

Right now, he could surrender to the weight of the quilt, the warmth of the bookshop, the whispers of paper against paper as Aziraphale turned every page, looking for answers to a question Crowley didn’t share and couldn’t understand.

Crowley closed his eyes, letting himself rest, breathing in the smell of Aziraphale, the lightness on his neck and shoulders now that the collar was gone, the low comforting hum of the strong wards surrounding them.

Aziraphale turned another page.

Crowley snuggled into the sofa, trying to balance his desire to soak in this perfect moment fully and something that told him to record this feeling, to collect it, to file it away in his mind and body, in case all was once again lost.

Aziraphale gasped. 

Crowley’s eyes flew open and he sat up to see Aziraphale staring down at a page in the middle of the book, one hand over his mouth, his eyes wide in shock.

***

Crowley was getting increasingly frustrated with Aziraphale. It seemed that every day he had a new story to tell him, each more outlandish and convoluted than the last, and it was all smelling very much like poorly aged seafood.

“It’s simple, dear.” Aziraphale also sounded impatient, as if Crowley were being purposefully dense. “It seems that the Gabriel who arrived the other day is, in fact, another  _ version _ of the archangel Gabriel, from another branch of the great cosmic timeline.”

“Right,” Crowley said, not bothering to conceal the incredulous sarcasm in his tone. “The great cosmic timeline. Awfully convenient.”

Aziraphale made an irritated noise. “It  _ is _ rather convenient, in that it means that the Gabriel who we have reason to believe could harm us by revealing certain information -”

“You mean by telling Heaven what you did to him,” Crowley interrupted.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “To put it one way, sure. If you’d let me finish, what I was saying was that my fears about Gabriel running amok in our world, bringing down the wrath of Heaven on us, or colluding with Hell, or whatever other stupid stunt he might have tried, were not accurate. It seems he’s not here at all.”

Despite all of Aziraphale’s lies and manipulations, Crowley couldn’t help but feel like this, at least, was good news. Whether he believed in this story about alternate realities or not, it seemed that at least one major problem had been solved for them - Aziraphale’s victim had been removed from his influence, through circumstances that had nothing to do with him or Crowley. Nothing to lead Heaven here, nothing to keep Aziraphale focused on his obsession with Gabriel.

Things would never go back to the way they were - but perhaps now they could settle down. Crowley could extricate himself from the mess of it all without putting anyone at risk, and Aziraphale would have no one left to take his newfound sadism out on. 

“Well, that’s a good thing, right?” Crowley was pacing around in the bookshop’s living room, having refused to sit down for this discussion with Aziraphale. “If he’s not here, he can’t do any of the things you said you had to prevent. And this - other Gabriel, whoever he is - we patch him up and send him back to wherever he came from. No one left to threaten us. Things can...get better.”

Crowley pointedly ignored the hopeful gleam in Aziraphale’s eyes at his last statement. It reminded him less of a lovestruck angel missing his partner and more like a predator anticipating a successful pounce.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” Aziraphale said, with a haughty certainty that Crowley didn’t like, and which didn’t sound much like the angel he’d known for millennia. “We can’t simply send this Gabriel back - he’s too dangerous.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, throwing up his arms. “Of course, of course, he’s too dangerous, always too dangerous. You never have any choice but to keep him, and to torture him, even when it’s  _ not even the same guy!” _

Something darkened in Aziraphale’s expression, and the room filled with angelic righteousness. It made the hairs on the back of Crowley’s neck stand up, and he stopped pacing, arms wrapped around himself. “Crowley,” Aziraphale said gravely. “I’ve seen inside his mind. I’ve seen what he did, when he had the power. When no one stopped him. He...he did things, Crowley, things to you, that are unforgivable.”

“What are you talking about?” Crowley shouted, his anger overriding his anxiety now. “He’s never done a thing to me!”

“Not in  _ this _ world, no, but -”

“Oh, stop it!” Crowley could hardly believe his ears. Aziraphale was now going to try and excuse his behavior by citing mysterious other worlds? He couldn’t handle it. “You’re talking nonsense, Aziraphale, and you know it.”

“If you’d just listen, Crowley, it’s not nonsense. It makes perfect sense. In fact, I’m beginning to believe that my sense that Gabriel needed to be reigned in, controlled, punished - my tendency to prefer more extreme methods than you felt were called for - perhaps was coming from this other Aziraphale, who witnessed Gabriel’s abhorrent actions and wanted me to prevent or avenge them here.”

“Listen to yourself, angel!” Crowley was near tears, pleading, feeling as if the whole world had gone insane but him, which in turn made him the maddest man on earth. “Cosmic timelines? Messages from another you? Multiple Gabriels? Please, Aziraphale…” 

But Crowley didn’t know how to finish that sentence. _ Please, Aziraphale, come to your senses? Please, Aziraphale, admit that you’re making up elaborate fantasies to justify rape and torture? _

_ Please, Aziraphale, just stop all this and let me go, let Gabriel go, let all of this go. _

“Look, I’ll show you. One moment.” Aziraphale snapped his fingers and an object came whizzing through the air from some far corner of the bookshop, nearly clipping Crowley on the ear as he ducked out of the way, until it landed in Aziraphale’s hands.

Crowley saw that it was a book, bound in dark leather. He’d never seen this particular book before, despite being very familiar with most of Aziraphale’s cherished possessions. 

Aziraphale opened to a random page near the center of the book, then conjured a pen from thin air and, his brow creased with focus, began to write. 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Aziraphales realize they need to start taking drastic action. This leads to a bad time for everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic will likely go on a semi-hiatus starting in the new year; with updates occasional and sporadic. I'm working on a large personal project and devoting less time to fanfic, but trust me, there IS an ending planned and it WILL happen. Just on a slower timeframe.

Aziraphale looked down at the writing on the page, unmistakably his own penmanship. 

“ _ I believe you have something of mine. _ ”

He thought of the terrified, terrorized archangel who had knelt before him. Not a thing, a being. One who couldn’t - shouldn’t - belong to anyone. 

What had he become, this other Aziraphale? 

Aziraphale shivered, then shut the book. He would not be responding - not yet. Let his counterpart think him a fool, let him wait a bit longer. First, he’d get things as right as possible where he could. 

“I think,” Aziraphale said, cautious, gentle, taking Crowley’s hand in his, “I think we ought to discuss this. All three of us.”

He saw Crowley swallow, the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple, felt the demon’s fingers clench against his own.

“He won’t hurt you,” Aziraphale tried to reassure his beloved. “He doesn’t want to, and besides, I won’t allow it.”

Crowley gave him a wry smile at that, the indulgent smirk he often gave the angel, the one that meant  _ you can’t possibly be right, Aziraphale, but I love you too much to do anything other than yield to your foolishness. _

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley’s hand one more time, then rose from the couch. “I’m going to go get Gabriel, okay? We’ll all sit at the kitchen table, and talk.”

Crowley nodded, but he looked entirely unconvinced.

Upstairs, the door to the guest room was nearly shut, but not latched. Aziraphale knocked gently, calling for Gabriel, but the movement made the door swing open, and - 

“Eaahh!” 

Aziraphale was startled by the sight of the archangel, stark naked, kneeling on the room’s blue rug. He leapt back from the doorway and turned around, his back now to Gabriel. 

  
“Er, Gabriel, would you mind getting dressed, please?” He rubbed his eyebrows, marvelling at the absolute oddity of the situation. He’d never in a thousand years expected to stumble across his boss completely nude, let alone need to gently request that Gabriel please put his clothes back on.

Behind him, he heard the soft shuffles of Gabriel getting dressed in the workout outfit Crowley had arrived wearing. When he dared turn back around, the archangel was waiting silently, his hands folded in front of him.

“Lovely. Thank you.” Aziraphale felt as if he were addressing a toddler, or a frightened animal. His face was still hot and flushed from the embarrassment. “Let’s just all keep our clothing on, shall we?”

Gabriel looked stricken. He put a finger to his lips, the same gesture he’d made downstairs in the kitchen.

“Oh, for - the whole place is warded, I promise.” Aziraphale fought to restrain his frustration. “It’s my home, and we can say whatever we like.” 

Gabriel dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thin and quiet.

“That’s fine.” Aziraphale’s exasperation turned to tenderness in an instant. “You’re fine, you’re safe. I promise, whatever’s happened to you, it’s - it’s not going to happen here.”

Gabriel gave him the same unconvinced look that Crowley had, but he didn’t argue.

“Would you mind coming downstairs with me, please? I’d like to speak with you about something.”

Twisting his hands together, Gabriel followed Aziraphale down the stairs. Crowley was already sitting at the kitchen table, but looked about ready to bolt when he saw Gabriel.

Aziraphale gathered up all the notebooks Gabriel had brought, the portal-book, and some blank sheafs of paper, then took a seat at the head of the table. Gabriel settled into the seat next to Aziraphale, across from Crowley.

“Ahem. Well.” Aziraphale pulled a blank sheet of paper toward him, trying to act as relaxed and normal as possible. This was not easy, given how much abject terror was filling the room, rolling in waves off both Crowley and Gabriel. “I do believe I’ve figured out the rough edges, at least, of the situation we’ve all found ourselves in.”

He picked up a pen and began drawing a horizontal line on the paper. Gabriel and Crowley leaned a bit closer, peering at the paper, but keeping careful distance from each other. “If we imagine one timeline - the one in which I live, with Crowley, as this line, and we imagine another timeline, the one in which you, Gabriel, were up until recently inhabiting…” Here he drew another line, nearly parallel to the first one. “It seems that there’s been a bit of a kerfuffle.” Aziraphale drew a smaller diagonal line that connected the two initial lines, making a little star at each point of intersection.

“It’s not a very common phenomenon,” Aziraphale continued, “but I think the likelihood increases if someone takes it upon themselves to tamper with time’s preferred pace and direction.”

“He was stopping time,” Crowley murmured.

“Yes, so it seems.” Aziraphale tapped his finger on the line that represented the other timeline, the one this Gabriel had come from. “Gabriel, is it possible that you - in your world, perhaps in an attempt to ameliorate your situation, attempted to -”

“No.” Gabriel’s voice was nothing more than a gasp, a nervous whisper, his head shaking defensively. “No, I would never - never try, never could - no.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale doodled a silly little shape on the paper, trying to collect his thoughts. “I wonder, then, what might have caused this particular shift.

A pause, then Gabriel spoke again, still sounding hesitant. “It...it could have been him.”

“Him?”

Gabriel’s violet eyes darted around the room, as if searching for a safe place to land. “He - Aziraphale. The other one. Not you. He has...powers.”

“Powers?”

Gabriel’s knuckles were white as he gripped his own hands, a tangle of fingers that might as well have been radiating fear. 

“Something happened,” he said, his voice cracking. “You...I mean, he - I was wrong, I didn’t know, I tried to...tried to…” 

Gabriel trailed off, looking at Aziraphale with wide, pleading eyes. There was something he didn’t want to say, something he expected to be made to say anyway.

“It’s alright,” Aziraphale said, reaching out to rest a hand over Gabriel’s clenched fists. “You don’t have to tell us everything, if it’s too hard.”

Next to him, Crowley sniffed derisively. “I’d like to know what he did, for one.” The demon was glaring down at the table, his jaw tight.

Gabriel made a choked little sound, and Aziraphale thought he might be holding back tears.

Aziraphale picked up the sheet of paper, attempting to steer the topic of conversation away from these dangerous shores. “It doesn’t seem particularly relevant at the moment, dear.”

At the pet name, Crowley turned a dozen shades paler, jerking his head up to watch Gabriel.

There was a moment of silent tension, as if Crowley was waiting for some reaction from Gabriel. But the archangel only sat there, his shoulders drooping, looking small and penitent. 

Slowly, Crowley’s gaze slid toward Aziraphale, and when he spoke again, it was with a much more even tone. “I just think,” he said, “if the Gabriel in this universe is capable of...if this Gabriel is telling us that…” He rubbed his forehead, tugged at a long lock of his curly hair, then tried again. “Just seems like a safer bet. Being informed, and all.”

Aziraphale felt a great despair open in his chest, an aching chasm, at Crowley’s words. If he thought that Gabriel should be held under suspicion due to his counterpart’s crimes, then what would he think when he found out it had been some version of Aziraphale who reduced this Gabriel to such a mess?

Let alone the fact that Crowley hadn’t been able to bring himself to tell Aziraphale what he’d endured. Soon, Aziraphale would have to tell him that he’d read Gabriel’s journals. Would Crowley consider it a violation? Or would he be relieved not to have to recount such atrocities for Aziraphale to understand?

Aziraphale took a deep breath, trying to put himself back together enough to manage the conversation. Gabriel was visibly shaking now, clearly dreading the moment when he’d be commanded to recount whatever it was that Crowley wanted to know. 

“Listen,” Aziraphale said, letting his voice grow more forceful. “Here’s what we know. There’s a world - our world - where Gabriel hurt you, Crowley, hurt you terribly. And there’s another world where Gabriel himself was hurt terribly.” He pointed at the two stars on the paper, distinguishing between them. “Since this Gabriel has come into our world, we can only assume that his counterpart, the Gabriel that Crowley and I know, is now in the other reality.”

“Great,” Crowley said, looking happier, or at least less miserable, than he had since he’d arrived. 

Gabriel, on the other hand, sounded horrified. “We - we can’t  _ leave _ him there!” He clapped a hand over his mouth after blurting this out, his eyes glued to Aziraphale.

“Why not?” Crowley grumbled. 

“Well he’s - you’re - he can’t -” Gabriel was nearly incoherent, looking between Crowley and Aziraphale like a cornered animal. After a few seconds of babbling, he snapped his mouth shut and pointed to the drawing on the table, then tried again. “You said someone’s hurting him - me - if he’s there, now…”

“So? “Keeps him away from us.” Crowley spoke sharply, defensive, then finished, under his breath, “...sure he deserves it.”

This clearly horrified Gabriel. “No one...no one else...deserves that,” he said, his voice shaky.

Crowley made a derisive, disbelieving snort. He seemed on the edge of saying something else, but Aziraphale cut in, hoping to keep things from escalating.

“I have a plan,” he said, and the other two entities went quiet. “Well, I’m beginning to think of a plan. But the first step of said plan, such as it exists right now, requires all three of us to open up, as it were. We can’t move forward unless everything -” here he gestured to the scattered papers, notebooks, and books, trying to ignore the dread in his heart at the implications of that  _ everything _ \- “is on the table.”

***

Aziraphale glared down at the book, waiting for more writing to appear. Surely whatever version of himself had his Gabriel would figure it out soon. He was, after all, Aziraphale.

Clever.

Powerful.

Enough to take down an archangel. 

Or, rather,  _ two _ archangels.

Perhaps, if his counterpart was aware of the crimes Gabriel had committed in his world, he might consent to letting Aziraphale keep both of them.

That opened up a whole realm of possibilities. 

But first, he needed to make contact. And the page remained blank. He scowled.

“Listen, angel,” Crowley said, sounding less angry, but still firmly holding his ground. “This has gone far enough.” He took a step toward the back room. “It has to stop.”

Aziraphale was about to stop Crowley, to explain again the purpose of the book and the reality of Gabriel’s danger, but he decided instead to remain silent, doing nothing to impede Crowley’s purposeful strides.

This clearly surprised Crowley, who paused in front of the door to the backroom to look back at Aziraphale. 

“Be my guest.” Aziraphale gestured welcomingly.

Aziraphale followed close behind, leaning against the doorframe with the posture of a casual observer. There was Gabriel on the floor, cuffed and chained, his face and chest streaked with blood.

He, too, followed Crowley with his eyes as the demon stalked over to the desk and retrieved the white gloves. They didn’t fit him, though - his hands being generally thinner and larger than Aziraphale’s - so he wrapped them around his hands like a boxer, then approached Gabriel.

“Finally come to your senses then, sweetheart?” Gabriel said as Crowley crouched down and started fiddling with the cuffs.

“Shut up,” Crowley snapped. 

“That’s right,” Gabriel said, “you’re not him. Seems there’s  _ two _ of you. We’ll just have to see what I can do about that.”

Aziraphale could see the hatred glittering in Gabriel’s eyes as he watched Crowley, a wolfish satisfaction on his battered face. For a moment, Aziraphale thought maybe he’d gone too far, letting Crowley in to try and help Gabriel. 

But he knew this was necessary. Crowley needed to see with his own eyes just how dangerous the archangel was. To understand just how critical Aziraphale’s efforts to keep him in check were. Aziraphale had seen inside Gabriel’s mind, seen the cruelty and sadism, seen what he had done to Crowley, precious Crowley, as soon as he got the chance. 

Besides, Crowley was in no  _ real _ peril. Behind his back, Aziraphale had snapped his finger quietly, and his fist was now closed around the hilt of the hellfire dagger. He’d be on Gabriel before he could do any significant harm to Crowley.

Just enough for the demon to understand. 

Sure enough, as soon as Crowley had one cuff undone, Gabriel leapt on him, grabbing at his neck with his free hand.

“Wha-” Crowley croaked, dropping the glove as he scrabbled against Gabriel’s grip.

“Finish,” Gabriel demanded, raising his still-cuffed hand as far as the chain would allow.

Crowley reached for it, then pulled back, looking down at the glove crumpled on the floor. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” Gabriel snarled, “you’re not so much a fan of holy things. Trust me, I remember.” The smirk on his face was cold and satisfied.

Crowley’s amber eyes went wide as Gabriel tightened his grip on the demon’s neck so he could pull Crowley’s face down, bringing his cheek close to the blessed metal of the cuff. Crowley struggled, wincing as Gabriel held the cuff millimeters from his cheek. 

The demon looked to Aziraphale, frightened, confused.

Aziraphale fought the urge to step in and rescue him right away. He had to learn. Had to see for himself just what Gabriel was. What the consequences of ‘mercy’ would be.

With one brutal motion, Gabriel pressed Crowley’s face against the cuff still around his own wrist, pressing the blessed metal into the soft skin of the demon’s cheek.

Crowley howled and kicked, fighting Gabriel with flailing limbs, and Aziraphale leapt into the fray, hauling Crowley from Gabriel’s grasp and pinning the archangel down with the hellfire blade at his throat.

Crowley stumbled to his feet, one hand clutching the burn on his face, staring down at Aziraphale in shock. 

“Go upstairs,” Aziraphale told him. “I’ll be right there.”

Crowley backed out of the room, his eyes wet with tears.

“Now then.” Aziraphale turned to Gabriel, prone beneath him, taking short and shallow breaths, trying to stay still enough that the knife wouldn’t make contact. “I need to go upstairs and tend to my Crowley. I must thank you, however, for clearly demonstrating the necessity of these.” Without moving the dagger, Aziraphale picked up the second cuff and snapped it easily around Gabriel’s wrist.

“That said, while I do admit that this was a rather useful instance, violence toward Crowley or myself is completely unacceptable, and will be met with swift justice.”

Aziraphale lifted the knife, savoring the few seconds of Gabriel’s naive relief, then held the edge across his cheek, right where he’d used the cuff to burn Crowley. 

Gabriel screamed, yanking at the chains in an attempt to reach his face, as if being able to touch the injury would do anything to soothe it. Aziraphale let him wail for a moment, then snapped his fingers, silencing the archangel completely. 

He plucked the crumpled glove off the floor and put it and the dagger away, then turned the lights out, closed the door, and headed upstairs, leaving Gabriel writhing in soundless agony. Hopefully the conversation with Crowley would go more smoothly now, since the demon had been witness to Gabriel’s evil. 


	14. Chapter 14

To Gabriel’s relief, but not his surprise, Aziraphale went first. He spoke about how Crowley had gone missing around two weeks prior, a statement which elicited a choked little sound from the demon. He explained that he had searched everywhere for Crowley, confessing that he had been considering even more extreme methods when his initial attempts failed.

Gabriel did his best to suppress a shiver at that. He knew exactly what it meant when Aziraphale resorted to “more extreme methods.”

Aziraphale then ran through more recent events, from his perspective - sensing Crowley nearby, his confusion at the demon’s distress, discovering Gabriel kneeling in front of the door to the back room. 

Any time Aziraphale made mention of his closeness with Crowley, the demon stiffened, looking at Gabriel with terror in his eyes. Gabriel did his best to look nonthreatening every time. Once, during his story, Aziraphale reached over to take Crowley’s hand, but Crowley yanked it away with a furtive glance at Gabriel. 

It made the archangel’s heart ache. It was their love that had saved them, saved the earth, given them immeasurable powers, and which She had given her stamp of approval. And yet he had been so blind to it, so cruel, seeking to stamp out something that he didn’t understand.

When Aziraphale had finished, he turned to Crowley and, false brightness in his voice, asked “do you want to go next, dear?”

Crowley had suddenly become very interested in the wood grain of the kitchen table, tracing a particular line with his finger over and over. “It’s about the same as what you said, angel,” he mumbled.

“Well, yes, but…” Aziraphale again reached for Crowley’s hand, which he finally allowed. “Your experiences were rather different than mine. Are you able to share what happened?”

Crowley shrugged. “Don’t know what to say. They - angels, Heaven, your lot -” here he waved his free hand, gesturing vaguely in Gabriel’s direction - “grabbed me, stuck a collar on me, kicked me around. They asked me questions, about you, about...us.”

Aziraphale nodded and made a sympathetic, attentive noise.

“They had pictures. Wanted me to...to tell them we were together. That you’d, I don’t know. Succumbed to my wiles.”

There was a crackle in Crowley’s voice now, grief and rage and everything in between.

“I told them it hadn’t worked...that I’d been trying to seduce you, but you were innocent. They didn’t believe me, they wanted you too, but I wouldn’t…”

Crowley trailed off, staring into the table as if it contained some kind of answers. The kitchen was quiet, a gentle pause, both angels giving Crowley time to find his next words.

“Then they stopped asking. It was like...like they wanted something else. Just me. Not information, just…me.” 

Again Crowley traced the ciphers of the ancient wood, staring downwards, his fingertip the only thing moving in the whole bookshop.

“He was having fun.” Crowley lifted his chin, then, letting his gaze settle on Gabriel’s face.

It was no lie. Gabriel had seen the content of those notebooks, had witnessed the ravages of Crowley’s battered body in that cell. What had been done to Crowley was not utilitarian, done simply in pursuit of critical information. It was the work of a sadist, suffering inflicted for another’s enjoyment.

After all his time with Azirpahale, Gabriel could recognize that, at least, when he saw it. 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale murmured, wrapping his arm around Crowley’s shoulders and leaning him over so that the demon was resting against his shoulder. “Now, er, Gabriel - can you tell us, from your vantage point, everything that’s happened?”

Gabriel knew this was coming, but he still felt unprepared for the spotlight. “Everything?”

“Please.”

Well, this was it, he supposed. “It was the Armageddon - or, well, it was supposed to be, at least we thought - and you two, you stopped it, saved the world, ruined Heaven’s plans and all.”

He stopped, trying to gauge the reactions on both his listeners’ faces. Aziraphale was listening raptly, while Crowley watched him from beneath lowered eyelids.

“We, er - I, I mean, the archangels, we - we tried to execute you.”

“There it is,” Crowley growled.

“It was my fault,” Gabriel said, knowing he didn’t deserve any sympathy or forgiveness. “I thought - I wanted - I was wrong. We tried to use Hellfire, but Aziraphale, he - you - he was immune. He had new powers. Great ones. He could use Hellfire too, like a demon.”

At this, Aziraphale’s brow furrowed, as if he was struggling to make sense of what Gabriel was saying. “I fell?”

“No!” If anyone deserved to fall, it was Gabriel, he knew. “No one fell - I mean, not - not then, not because of that. He’s still an angel, he just...he can do anything.”

“I highly doubt he can do absolutely  _ anything _ ,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps -”

“Yes.” Gabriel shook his head. He was loath to argue with Aziraphale, but this one was nice, had helped him, and he deserved to know what he was up against. “She gave him powers beyond anything else. He could wipe out Heaven with one hand.”

“Seems like he ought to,” Crowley said, and Gabriel felt sick. 

“He told me - he wanted to help me, I think...at first.” Gabriel’s insides were twisting up, and he felt hot, sweaty, nearly feverish. Even though Aziraphale had looked into his memories, he still didn’t know how the angel would react, being told to his face that another version of himself had been so cruel. “But then…” Gabriel cast around for the right thing to say, eventually deciding to echo Crowley’s words from earlier. “He was just having fun.”

Crowley gave a derisive snort.

“It’s true, darling,” Aziraphale said to the demon. “I saw it.”

“I can show you.” Gabriel’s words startled even himself. Inviting anyone into his memories, let alone a demon, was not something he would have ever considered, before...But now, he had nothing to lose, had already been flayed and laid bare a dozen times over. And he felt as if he had no right to withhold anything from Crowley, this Crowley, after seeing what he - some other him, but him nonetheless - had done.

“That’s not necessar-” Aziraphale began, putting a placating hand on Gabriel’s arm, but Crowley interrupted.

“No, I want to see.”

Gabriel bowed his head, leaning so that Crowley could reach his forehead. The demon’s touch was hesitant but not exactly gentle.

After a deep breath, Gabriel let the door of his mind crack open, guiding his thoughts toward a handful of moments that would show Crowley what had happened without being too gruesome.

“LIAR!” Crowley yanked his hand back from Gabriel as if he’d been burned, the motion so violent that he nearly tipped his chair backwards, and ended up scrambling to his feet instead. “It’s not possible! He’s just trying to - you’re doing it again!”

Crowley was crying now, furious tears, pointing accusingly at Gabriel as he shouted. “He’s making it up! Aziraphale, don’t believe -”

“Memories can’t be falsified, Crowley,” Aziraphale said gravely. 

“Angel, he was STOPPING TIME! He was - he’ll do anything - he just wants to - you have no idea what he’s capable of.”

“I have read the notebooks, love.” Aziraphale remained in his seat, speaking with a calm patience that stunned Gabriel. “I fully believe that the Gabriel you know would go to abominable lengths to harm us. But this is not -”

Crowley spun to face Aziraphale, his shoulders heaving. “You what?”

“I read the notebooks. I know what happened to you in Heaven.”

“You...you…” Crowley’s mouth opened and closed wordlessly a few times, his eyes flashing with shame and anger. “He’s a liar,” he snarled, crossing his arms and glaring at Gabriel.

“He isn’t,” Aziraphale said. “He’s a victim, same as you.”

Crowley huffed indignantly. “A victim of  _ you _ , he’d have us believe. Really, angel. As if.”

“If it’s possible for a different timeline to twist such that I - another me, rather - is capable of such things, then we can also believe that there exists a Gabriel who is deserving of our comfort and protection.”

“But you’re not.” Crowley sounded less like he was arguing now, and more like he was begging. “You’re not, Aziraphale, you couldn’t do those things.”

“Perhaps not in this reality,” Aziraphale mused. “Or, perhaps the capacity for evil exists in us all, and it simply happened to sprout in the Gabriel you know, and the Aziraphale he does.”

Gabriel, who had been sitting very still and listening to the whole conversation, was beginning to feel very confused. Now that this nice Aziraphale had explained that he was in an alternate reality, where everyone was a double of someone else he knew, and he himself had taken the place of another Gabriel, things were becoming increasingly difficult to keep track of.

“Something stinks here. Fishy all the way down.” Crowley was still pacing, waving his arms with agitation and occasionally pointing an accusing finger at Gabriel. “First they interrogate me, then they give up on that and just...just...whale on me, now they’re playing mind games, different Gabriels, trying to turn us against each other -”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, keeping his tone level even as he interrupted the demon’s hysterical rant. “I don’t think -”

“Well I’m done!” Crowley was nearly screaming now, most of his fury directed at Gabriel, who felt like crawling under the table and cowering, but somehow managed not to, mostly out of fear that kept him rooted in his seat. “Done with the lot of it. Whoever you are, you can tell them we’re done playing games, and Gabriel can come collect me if he likes, but I won’t be going gently into that good - that good - Heaven - wherever!”

Before Aziraphale could respond, Crowley stormed up the stairs. Gabriel heard a door slam. He held his breath, waiting for Aziraphale’s reaction.

“Well,” the angel said, clapping his hands against his thighs, “that’s as good a place to stop as any, I suppose.”

***

It hurt and it hurt and it hurt, worse than hurt, beyond words, beyond hurt, beyond anything. And the pain had nowhere to go, trapped inside his captive body, his silenced lungs, pounding at the edges of himself, begging for release but going unheard.

Gabriel curled in on himself, a tight ball of agony, all thought obliterated, every inch of him focused on only one thing -  _ make it stop make it stop I can’t I can’t I can’t _ \- a plea that ricocheted inside his skull, filling up the space hollowed out by pain.

He just needed to cry out, needed to make some sound, needed the relief of a scream, but none would come. Gabriel clawed at his tongue, hands scrabbling at his useless throat as if he could pull out some noise, could undo the curse that held him quiet, could do something, anything, to make it stop, make it stop, make it stop.

The floor was hard beneath him and he banged his head against it, an action without strategy, a last-ditch attempt to change something, anything, about these intolerable circumstances he found himself in. Strangled memories came to him and he thought he heard the demon’s pained pleading and the wordless howling that followed; and he wished for such a blessing, wondered whether he might find his voice somewhere in the desperate cries he had once elicited.

But no relief came, and the images his mind conjured, of panic and rage and the ruined sockets of the creature’s eyes, seemed to fold in on themselves, twisting themselves into the pain-addled folds of his own brain, the lightning-raw nerves of his corporation. He would give it all, would free the demon, would disavow every moment of torment, if he could just  _ make it stop, make it stop, make it stop _ .


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, DiP!Gabe and Crowley both get a bit of a break.

Crowley didn’t know what he intended to do after shutting himself in the bedroom, and resorted to throwing himself on the bed and beating on the pillows for a while. He was frustrated with his own frustration, enraged at his own rage, and wanted nothing more than to be elsewhere. Where, he couldn’t say - and he certainly regretted everything he said about calling Gabriel back - but he just felt trapped.

It wasn’t fair. Not that Crowley generally expected things to be ‘fair’ - he was a demon, after all, his very existence was impossible without some level of capriciousness on the part of the universe. Besides, his experiences over the last year or so (how long had Gabriel kept him outside the bounds of time, in literally endless torment?) had scrubbed any residual belief in justice of mercy that may have been left in him.

But this - it was just too much. To be brutalized, broken, destroyed by a creature calling himself the Archangel Gabriel, then freed by some other version of the archangel, and now expected to meet that creature with pity? He couldn’t. Crowley had been denied so much, and he would not be denied this last thing: a target for his fury. It was one thing to be made into a victim, and quite another to find himself bereft of a villain, to be left alone in the wreckage of himself with no one to blame, no direction in which to point when trying to make sense of all that he had lost.

It wasn’t this Gabriel’s fault - but it had to be someone’s fault, and in the absence of the sadist Crowley had come to know all too intimately, he refused to hold everyone blameless for their own sake.

Crowley growled into the bedsheets and hauled himself upright, having grown tired of lying facedown in misery and deciding to begin pacing in misery instead. He had just made his third lap of the bedroom, kicking at the carpeting, when he heard a soft knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Crowley called, fully expecting it to be Aziraphale.

Instead, when the door opened, it was Gabriel standing there. The sight of the archangel in a doorway made Crowley feel like an insect waiting to be crushed.

“What do you want?” Though Crowley had become convinced, despite himself, that this figure was not actually the being who had tortured and imprisoned him, that didn’t mean he was at all comfortable with him. 

“I read them too,” Gabriel said, sheepishly holding up one of the notebooks. “When I was trying to fix time.”

“Get off on it, did you?” 

Gabriel shook his head, a horrified look on his face. He seemed so sad, so scared, so...pathetic.

Crowley was familiar with the feeling.

“So what do you want?” He snapped again. Just because this archangel had appeared from an alternate dimension to skulk around like a kicked puppy didn’t mean Crowley had to be nice to him.

First of all, he  _ was _ Gabriel, and it would be a long while before Crowley could see that face, hear that voice, and not wish a slow and agonizing death upon him. Second, Crowley was angry - so angry, angrier than he’d been since - well, he wasn’t going to go there - and it seemed the actual object of his rage was off in another timeline, which Crowley felt was supremely unfair.

Full of anger that had nowhere to go, and confusion which increased rather than abating with every passing moment, Crowley’s capacity for niceness was at an all time low.

Drained away, like his own blood over the stones of his cell, like the holy water that dripped over his skin.

“I just wanted to say…” The Gabriel in his doorway fidgeted with his hands, his shoulders hunched, and Crowley hated it. Hated him for having the nerve to look like a cringing little thing, to act like skittish prey. Like he had the right to try and appease Crowley, to plead for mercy by making himself small and unthreatening. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, thanks,” Crowley snapped. “Suppose that makes everything hunky dory now. Good on you.”

“I - I didn’t mean…” Gabriel stared at the floor between them. “I know what it’s like,” he said then, raising his eyes to meet Crowley’s for the first time. 

“You do, do you?” Crowley knew what he’d seen in this Gabriel’s memories, but he still refused to believe that what Gabriel had supposedly endured was comparable to his own nightmare.’

“I - well, not exactly, I’m sure it’s not - I just...I know how it feels.” Gabriel, despite his halting and stuttering speech, took a deep breath and seemed to be gearing up for some kind of monologue. Crowley crossed his arms, leaning against one of the bedposts, his curiosity winning out over his inclination to shut the whole stupid conversation down.

“Makes you hate yourself,” Gabriel continued, and Crowley felt one of his eyebrows lift. “Because...you can’t hate him, you can’t, he’s too - too much, too powerful, and it’s all you have, but you have to hate something, so you hate yourself. It has to make sense, you have to deserve it, or else you just can’t bear it, you won’t be able to... It hurts and it’s worse without a reason, and he can’t be the reason, so it has to be you. He hurts you and you hate yourself for it.”

Gabriel’s gaze was soft and needy, but not in the appeasing way he’d had when he first arrived. It was like he was searching for something - no, not searching. Hoping.

The archangel was not pleading for mercy. He was looking for connection. Understanding. 

And as much Crowley wished he could deny Gabriel, he knew that hope too well to pretend otherwise. It was a fragile thing, cracked through with shame, quivering under the weight of fear and rage. And Crowley couldn’t bring himself to crush it. Not for Gabriel. Not for himself.

“Come in,” he said.

***

Aziraphale was upstairs almost immediately after Crowley, fussing and petting. Crowley hissed with the sensation as the angel healed the burn on his cheek, and continued to press his hand to his face, feeling the ghostly throbbing of the injury’s memory. 

“I’m so sorry, darling,” Aziraphale chattered, gathering an unresistant Crowley into his arm and lowering them into the bed. “I had no idea he’d actually harm you, he was so quick, I couldn’t stop him, but surely now you see, he’s a danger to you, he’s gone nearly mad with hatred, he’s not -”

“Just wanna sleep,” Crowley mumbled, turning away from Aziraphale and curling up on his side. In truth, he wanted nothing less than to sleep, but he had to shut the angel up somehow. Crowley couldn’t handle another argument, but he also couldn’t just lay there and listen to the solicitous lies pouring forth. 

“Yes, yes, of course dear, I’m so sorry, you must be so exhausted after all that. It won’t happen again, I assure you. I won’t let it. Though perhaps it might be best if you kept your distance from him, at least for a -”

“Sleep, angel.”

“Right! Right. Would you like some, er, help on that front?”

“No.” Crowley scooched away from Aziraphale’s cloying embrace under the guise of wrapping himself more tightly in the blankets. 

“Is your face still hurting you?” Aziraphale propped himself up on one arm so he could lean over Crowley, peering too-closely at the spot on his cheek where the blessed cuffs had burned him. “It still looks rather angry,” he mused. “I could simply soothe the pain a bit more.”

Crowley wondered why the angel didn’t sound more annoyed that his healing miracle hadn’t fully taken. Perhaps he hadn’t intended it to. Or perhaps he was simply glad for more ‘evidence’ of Gabriel’s irredeemable evil. 

“Just leave it,” Crowley whined, keeping his eyes shut. “Please.”

Aziraphale made a little tutting noise, then leaned back and settled himself against the pillows. “Whatever you say, dear.”

Ha. Of all the twisted nonsense Aziraphale had pulled recently, that was perhaps his most blatant lie.

“Mmm,” was all Crowley said, feigning sleepiness. Aziraphale conjured a book and began reading, clearly intending to guard the sleeping demon for a long while. 

Crowley tried to rest, tried to let his mind go quiet, tried to give himself a break from the chaos and confusion that had become his world. But something tickled at his mind, some reek - no, ringing - no, something else, something not in the air, but hanging between its particles.

Taking care to keep his breathing steady, Crowley reached out tentatively, gently, quietly, nudging at the edges of Time, testing to see whether she was willing to cooperate today. 

_ Just a moment, just...to check on something. Without him. Without either of them. _

He felt a sort of exasperated sigh flow through the room, and when he turned his head, Aziraphale was frozen in place, a book in his hands, glasses perched on the end of his nose.

Crowley slipped downstairs, careful not to disturb anything on the way, and pushed open the door to the backroom. There was the archangel, a picture of agony, a deadened glare in his motionless eyes, his hands curled like claws. On his face, a livid burn that made Crowley wince in sympathy. 

It was too much, all too much - the pain, Aziraphale’s willingness to inflict it, the rage and hatred swirling around from all directions. Crowley bent over Gabriel’s unnaturally still form, thinking it might be a mercy if he simply dispatched the archangel here and now, or left the whole world frozen for a good long while.

Neither was an option, though, and so all he did was brush his fingertips lightly over Gabriel’s cheek, healing the supernatural wound and leaving only a surface burn in the corporation’s flesh. He didn’t dare do more, not yet. 

On his way back upstairs to take his place in the macabre scene, his eyes fell on the strange book that Aziraphale had used to try and speak to the other world, the one the Gabriel he knew had gone to. He flipped through a few pages, holding his breath, not sure what he hoped to see. They were still blank, and he forced himself to exhale. In truth, he wasn’t sure whether he was ready to face the prospect of two Aziraphales - one was all he could handle right now, and just barely.

Crowley set the book back, careful to replace it just so, not because he worried Aziraphale might notice, but because he was already asking enough of Time. The world was just starting to stir again when he slipped back beneath the sheets, and he knew he had pushed his luck enough for today.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DiP!Gabriel and Repo!Crowley (aka the vicTeam) spend some time chatting, then join Aziraphale for some plan making. Repo!Gabriel has a bad time.

All Gabriel felt like doing in that moment was going to his knees beside Crowley and letting the demon stroke his hair and give him permission to doze. But something told him not to get so close to this Crowley. Gabriel saw in Crowley the same jumpiness, the same tension that hummed at the edges of his skin, and figured he’d let everyone have their space.

So instead he stepped into the bedroom and leaned against the wall, trying to affect an air of friendly relaxation, though succeeding only in awkwardly sliding against the wallpaper. Crowley watched wordlessly as the archangel settled into a standing position next to the dresser. It felt wrong, towering over Crowley like this while the demon sat on the bed, but it wasn’t like Gabriel was going to join him there, so he just kept his distance and did his best. 

“Do me a favor, would you?” Crowley finally spoke, and Gabriel felt relief flood through him. 

“Okay.” Gabriel couldn’t fathom what Crowley might want from him, but he was ready and willing to do whatever it was.

“Don’t show Aziraphale any more of that.” Crowley made a swirling gesture near his own head, and Gabriel figured he meant the memory sharing. “Even if he asks really nicely. I don’t think it’s good for him.”

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel mumbled. It seemed impossible, what Crowley was asking - to refuse Aziraphale anything he might ask for. But he did feel terrible for bringing so much pain into the lives of two beings who had nothing to do with any of it. 

“It’s alright.” Crowley sounded more annoyed than soothed by Gabriel’s apology. “Just...he doesn’t need to see that, okay?”

“Okay.” 

“Never would have imagined any Aziraphale could go like that. Worse’n most of Hell, at least the one I know.” Crowley tapped his fingers and rolled his neck, speaking as if he was talking to himself more than Gabriel. “Not even in another world. Those memories…” He trailed off, his expression going dark. “Shudder to think what I’m like over there.”

“Gabriel instinctively raised a finger to his lips, then tried to disguise the gesture by scratching at his ear. It didn’t feel safe to interrupt Crowley, but he had to get himself together. “If I may,” he tried, and Crowley snapped his gaze to the archangel, as if he’d only just remembered he had company. 

“Hm?”

“You - he - the other you, he’s not - he’s nice. Not like…” Gabriel still couldn’t bring himself to speak ill of Aziraphale. “I mean, he’s decent. Helpful, even. Cares for me when I need it.”

Crowley scoffed. “Hard to conceive a world where  _ I’m _ the decent one.” The hatred and anger in the demon’s voice, directed primarily at himself, hurt Gabriel’s heart to hear. 

“I’m sure the same is true of this world,” Gabriel said. He knew he was out on a ledge, now, but his words used to be his strongest tool, and he’d already won Crowley over once by just letting himself speak. “Not that he isn’t - I only mean, you’ve been quite kind to me, especially considering, well, I’m an archangel, and…you’ve been more than decent.” 

It made Gabriel feel weak, and small, but just as he couldn’t manage to name what had happened to him under Aziraphale’s hands, he felt equally ill prepared to say anything of what Crowley had suffered. So the once-great messenger of the Lord fell lamely silent, trailing off in a pathetic hope that what he meant would be understood despite his failings.

Crowley laughed again, sharp and derisive. “Sure would be nice if that attitude were shared among all archangels, or even just all the ones that look like you.” As if warding off some chill, Crowley wrapped his arms around himself, his back hunched.

Gabriel was trying to come up with something to say, floundering around in his own mind, when Crowley sat up straight, shook his shoulders out, clapped his hands on his knees, and announced “Well, Aziraphale will be wanting help coming up with his plan, then.”

Not fully clear on what was going on but well used to that state of things anyway, Gabriel followed Crowley downstairs. 

Aziraphale was still at the table, though the notebooks had been tidied away. He had that blank book open and was staring down at the message, his brow furrowed. There was a fountain pen in his hand, but no additional writing on the page.

“I’ve had a thought, angel,” Crowley said, pulling a chair out and taking a seat with a flourish clearly intended to demonstrate that he was feeling better. Gabriel also sat down at the table, folding his hands primly in his lap as Aziraphale had taught him when reviewing table manners. 

“What if,” Crowley continued, “we all just...stay here? If all we’ve uncovered is true, then the Gabriel who’s a danger to us is in another realm of existence, and the Aziraphale who’s a danger to this poor one is also there, so say you just toss that book, and we all move on, safe and sound, leave the others to, well, to each other.”

“Hm.” Aziraphale tapped the pen against his lips absentmindedly. “What do you think, dear? Would you want to stay here?”

Gabriel realized Aziraphale was talking to him. Usually, a question from the angel’s mouth demanded a clear and immediate answer, but Gabriel didn’t have a well rehearsed apology or litany of sins or acceptable plea for this question. 

“Uh,” he said, feeling frantic, his thoughts scrambled. It had been so much easier to talk with Crowley upstairs. “Can...can I ask a question?”

“Of course.” Aziraphale set the pen down and leaned forward, all his attention on Gabriel. It made the archangel want to squirm in his seat and disappear. 

“Is...Michael, is she - the Michael here, the one you know, is she like…” Gabriel gestured toward the neat stack of notebooks that documented his counterpart’s cruelties. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said. “I don’t know what Heaven is like in your world, but it’s pretty brutal up there. Not for you, but if what you’re asking is whether Michael was in on the whole thing, yes, she’s geared up for war. They all are.”

Gabriel’s chest twisted in grief at the thought of never seeing his big sister again, at having to live with some twisted facsimile of her, one who thought violence and torture was part of Heaven’s work. “I...I think...if it’s possible, and if it doesn’t put you two in danger, then...I want to go home.”

Crowley looked incredulous. “Even if it means going back to that? You stay here, you’re golden. Just waltz on up to Heaven, no one can touch you. You’re safe here.”

“I can’t just leave,” Gabriel said. His hands felt heavy in his lap. “He’s still there, too - Crowley. If he’s there with both…” Gabriel took a deep breath, conjuring all his courage to continue speaking. “Both the Gabriel you know, and the Aziraphale I know. I can’t abandon him to that.”

“I’m sure he can hold his own,” Crowley said. “And if he sticks around with an Aziraphale like that, it’s his own damn fault anyway.”

Gabriel shook his head sadly. Though he knew both of them had been blessed by Her after they prevented Armageddon, something told him that Crowley had less power than Aziraphale somehow. Perhaps it was simply Her favor for the angels, or perhaps Crowley was in some way dependent on Aziraphale. After all, Aziraphale was scourging the evil out of Gabriel. Maybe Crowley had undergone the same sort of process, coming out of it purified and bound to the angel. 

“It’s alright.” Aziraphale spoke next, comfort and gentleness in his voice. “I understand you wanting to be with your family, the ones you truly know, after all this. And I find it admirable that you won’t abandon your world, despite what you went through there. We’ll find a way to get you home.”

“Angel.” Crowley’s tone was half warning, half pleading. “If we reconnect the two, then we’re all in danger. Gabriel will come back here, and we’ll have nowhere to run. I don’t like the idea of you being on this other Aziraphale’s radar, either.”

“Yes, we ought not to do this recklessly.” Aziraphale had picked up the pen again, and Gabriel’s eyes couldn’t help but follow its metallic glint as it twirled in his fingers. “We need a clear plan, a way to neutralize both of them, in either world, under the guise of an exchange.”

“Seems it’ll be a long night, then,” Crowley grumbled, pushing back his chair and running a hand through his hair. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

***

At some point in the night, the agony in Gabriel’s face changed from being all-encompassing, spreading even to his celestial self, obliterating any semblance of conscious thought and resisting any of his attempts at escape, and became simply an excruciating corporeal pain. The relief was enough to let him drift in and out of consciousness.

He passed the long hours of the night in dazed misery, his mind flitting between howling blackness and fitful dreams. He dreamt of Heaven, the way its hallways echoed when he stopped time, of the helpless and frozen bodies of his colleagues, and he felt himself trapped the same way, looking out from eyes that could not blink. He smelled sweat, and blood, and tears, tasted something bitter and metallic on his tongue, and tried to remember whether the demon bled red or black or some other foul substance.

Images of Crowley, his prisoner, his possession, his slave, floated through his mind. He knew Crowley was somewhere nearby, in this damned Earthside house he’d found himself in, but he also knew Crowley was far, far away from him, nearly as untouchable as Her. How these two things could both be true, he wasn’t sure, and the edges of each puzzle piece were frayed with pain. Half a thought would form itself before melting away in a wordless scream. 

Not just wordless, but soundless. Words were all Gabriel had, his voice, his commands, his special blessing. Now he was silent, through some demonic curse or whatever else the fool of an angel had done to him. Whenever he became aware enough of his body to realize this terrible truth, fury filled him like he’d never known before, not even when the demon Crowley had spat back at him or kicked out in defiance. 

He reached into his celestial self for his voice, his true voice, full of Heavenly might and righteous power, but it would not obey, would not boom forth. Instead, it crackled within him, burning and roiling, heat in his throat and his wrists, and he collapsed under its weight, panting and heaving. Something was wrong, very wrong, and yet he could not name it, could not banish it, could not even pray to be delivered from it.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plan-making hits a snag. DiP!Aziraphale starts a new project.

“I suppose I’ve kept him waiting long enough,” Aziraphale said, preparing to write a message in response to whoever was speaking to him through the book. As the evening grew longer, they had moved to the sitting room of the library, where Aziraphale took up his usual spot in his comfy chair. He had tried to entice Crowley to come sit with him, but the demon demurred, choosing instead to wander restlessly around the room.

It broke Aziraphale’s heart to see Crowley so agitated, a state he’d been more or less constantly in since his odd return. He was jumpy and guarded, refusing any invitation to touch and looking very uncomfortable every time Aziraphale showed him any affection. His nervous glances at Gabriel made it clear - after so much time fighting to hide their relationship, Crowley still didn’t feel safe around Aziraphale and the archangel.

Aziraphale missed his cuddles, his kisses and gentle shoulder rubs, but he didn’t push. He had been without Crowley entirely for weeks, and simply having him home would have to be enough. 

Although, it was hard for Aziraphale to see Gabriel as any sort of threat, given that the archangel seemed terrified of half the furniture in the library and had decided to sit on the floor, his long legs bent awkwardly underneath him in some kind of half-kneeling, half-sitting position that Aziraphale knew couldn’t be comfortable.

Clearly, both the beings currently in his home were carrying deep and lasting scars, ones Aziraphale couldn’t begin to fathom, despite having read the documentation of Crowley’s torture and witnessed Gabriel’s through his own eyes. All he could do was focus on the task ahead of them: getting Gabriel safely home to his own Heaven while neutralizing both of the villains he’d so recently become aware of. 

“What should I say? I need to convince him that I have a good reason for wanting to contact him and therefore, er, lose possession of the archangel Gabriel.”

There was a pause, then Aziraphale heard Gabriel mumble something that he couldn’t make out. 

“Pardon me?”

“You can write...that I talk too much. That I’m arrogant and selfish. A liar.” Gabriel’s voice was clear now, his words coming out in a steady monotone that told Aziraphale they were well rehearsed and oft repeated. “Or...tell him I’m a whore who tried to seduce your husband, and you want me out of your house.”

Crowley made a shocked, choked little sound. Aziraphale felt similarly, though he managed to keep his composure. “And why would I write such a thing?”

“Because he’ll believe it.” Gabriel was mumbling again, his head bowed, hands trembling.

“What did you do?” Crowley was on the other side of the room, but he was focused like a laser on the kneeling archangel. He looked horrified and frightened at the same time, pointing at Gabriel as if he’d been caught red handed at some terrible crime while his other arm hugged his own waist protectively. “The other Crowley, did - did you -”

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel cried, covering his face as he dissolved into tears. “I didn’t mean to!”

“Of course you didn’t,” Crowley hissed, still keeping his distance. “He just tempted you into it, didn’t he? Couldn’t help yourself, presented with a helpless demon, is that it?”

“No, no,” Gabriel sobbed. “I’m sorry!”

“Sorry you got caught, more like. Is that why he took you? That’s what happened!”

Aziraphale rose from his chair, hands held out placatingly, though he didn’t know exactly how he might calm the situation. “Dear, I don’t think -”

“I know what he’s like, angel! What he does. It all makes sense now. He probably deserved it all. I bet you’d have done the same, if - if you’d found me.”

Crowley was getting frantic, and it sounded as if he was talking faster than he was thinking, putting ideas together out loud as he went along. Aziraphale was only half following along. Meanwhile, Gabriel was huddled in a ball on the sitting room floor, shaking and whimpering. 

“I’d like to think you’re wrong, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, folding his arms and lifting his chin in an attempt at authority. “No matter how badly someone else harmed you. I would not retaliate in such a way. Surely I’d do whatever it took to protect you, but I sincerely doubt your safety would require such...excessive violence to secure.”

Rather than being convinced or comforted, Crowley just looked wounded. “You don’t know anything,” the demon snapped. 

“No argument there,” Aziraphale said, deciding to try switching tactics. “I think we’re all feeling a bit under-informed, of late.”

“At least that’s one problem solved,” Crowley said, casting a nasty glance at Gabriel. “I want him out of here. Just send him back, I don’t care.”

Aziraphale sighed. “We’re working on that, but first we need a plan to make sure he can get back to Heaven safely.”

“Safe for who?” Crowley was seething now, his posture tense. “He said it himself, he wants to get back to me - to Crowley. So he can keep  _ raping _ him!”

At that, Gabriel’s head shot up, eyes huge, shock plain on his face. “No, no, please, I didn’t - I would never -”

“Shut up,” Crowley spat. “It’s obvious now. Angel, he said it himself. Aziraphale was angry with him for ‘seducing’ Crowley. That’s all he was trying to do - keep Crowley safe. You’d do the same, I know you would.”

Crowley’s last line sounded more like a plea, like he needed to believe that the Aziraphale he knew was capable of doing whatever it took to stop Gabriel from hurting him. And it wasn’t a point Aziraphale felt comfortable debating.

But Gabriel seemed pretty adamant that this wasn’t what had happened, and Aziraphale hadn’t seen the archangel so willing to contradict anyone since he’d arrived. “Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, trying to balance authoritative seriousness with cautious gentleness, “is that what happened?”

Gabriel shook his head. Crowley scoffed. 

“Can you tell us what happened?”

Gabriel just kept shaking his head. 

“Can...can you show me?”

At that, Gabriel just looked, panicked, at Crowley. Crowley stalked over and dropped to the floor next to Gabriel, making the archangel flinch. “Show  _ me _ ,” Crowley said, and before Aziraphale could protest, Gabriel again let Crowley rest his forehead against him and closed his eyes.

A few moments passed, then Crowley pulled away, slowly. Gabriel kept his eyes closed and seemed to go limp, slouched on the floor. 

“Oh,” was all Crowley said. Then, after another quiet moment, “I’m sorry.”

Gabriel shook his head as if to refuse the apology. 

Crowley blew out a long breath, ran a hand over his face, then looked up at Aziraphale. There were dark bags beneath his eyes and he looked tired, haunted, miserable. 

“Let’s all take some rest, shall we?” Aziraphale tried to sound cheerful, but all he could manage was a single soft clap. He bent down and helped Gabriel stand, guiding the archangel up the stairs and into his own bed.

“Try and get some sleep, okay?” Aziraphale tucked the covers up around Gabriel and wondered whether it would be a mercy or a violation to use a subtle miracle to help him relax. In the end, he decided against it. 

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel murmured as Aziraphale shut the door behind him. 

When he made it to his own room, he found that Crowley had brought the blank book upstairs with him. “Probably ought to get back to him soon,” Crowley said, not making eye contact. “Doesn’t seem like the kind of guy you want to keep waiting.”

“Right.” Aziraphale settled against the pillows with the book in his lap. “I suppose I’ll take Gabriel’s first suggestion and write that I’ve grown tired of his chattering.”

“Sounds good.” Crowley’s speech was more clipped than usual, distracted and short. 

Aziraphale set his pen to paper and wrote, then watched in fascination and horror as a new message appeared a bit later, the handwriting eerily similar. 

_ I am sorry to hear that my efforts at behavior modification have not succeeded in rendering Gabriel’s company tolerable. You have my word that this will be remedied as soon as he is returned to me. As such, I believe our next step would be to calculate the cosmic coordinates for our respective channels of reality, then meet in one plane to perform the handoff. _

“I don’t want him to come here,” Aziraphale said, hoping that Crowley would be able to help. “Shall I suggest that we rendezvous in his world?”

“Don’t say that!” The urgency in Crowley’s voice startled Aziraphale into dropping his pen onto the bed, leaving a tiny ink stain he would need to remember to scrub at later. “Tell him you want to meet here.”

“But...I don’t. I want us to have his coordinates without him having ours.”

“Trust me. Original tempter, remember? People don’t like to do things if they think that’s what you want them to do. We want it to be his idea.”

“So what do I write?”

“Say…” Crowley looked thoughtful, staring out the window. “Say that for your own security, you’d prefer to arrange the meeting here, on your home turf.”

“Do I have to say  _ turf _ ?” 

“No, just tell him you want to meet here.”

It felt risky, suggesting something that Aziraphale absolutely did not want to see happen. But he decided to trust Crowley. 

_ For the sake of my own safety, I request that we arrange our meeting in my world rather than yours. I will provide my coordinates once calculated. _

Aziraphale held his breath as he waited for the reply. When it came, he could have grabbed Crowley and kissed him everywhere, genius that he was. His counterpart had written:

_ Unfortunately, I am not amenable. I prefer a meeting in my dimension. Stand by for coordinates, which may take some time to calculate. _

***

Aziraphale had, of course, already determined his own coordinates, and was ready to allow trans-dimensional travel as soon as his clearly less intellectually endowed counterpart was able. But he needed more time here, without someone else pestering him about prisoners and trades and justice and so forth. 

By the time he was finished, Aziraphale would have  _ two _ Gabriels under his very capable thumbs. Not only would that open up a world of potential for his own personal projects, it also made him the valiant savior of two entire worlds. Here was an opportunity to reduce, by twofold, Gabriel’s capacity to spread his filth and cruelty.

And if he continued his work, now with two Gabriels and a communication conduit to another reality, he might be able to widen his influence even further, to seek out and collect any other iteration of the archangel who might need reining in or re-educating.

Aziraphale pushed open the door to the backroom to see Gabriel just where he’d left him, laid out trembling and naked, his wrists chained to the floor. 

The archangel looked up at him with hatred and rage, his bloodied nose wrinkling in disgust. He sat up a bit, trying to make himself taller rather than shrinking back. 

The mark on the archangel’s cheek seemed less supernaturally livid, and Aziraphale wondered whether he had failed to press the blade closely enough to Gabriel’s flesh.

No matter. He wanted Gabriel coherent for this next bit, anyway, and Crowley was upstairs sleeping.

“Hello, Gabriel.”

Aziraphale crouched down and reached out to cup Gabriel’s jaw, gentleness and malice both present in the gesture. He also lifted the silencing miracle, rather curious about what type of nonsense this Gabriel would start spouting.

Gabriel jerked away from the touch with a foul Enochian curse Aziraphale had only ever heard on the battlefield. 

This was certainly something different, and he was not disliking it. With his first Gabriel, Aziraphale had been cautious and methodical. By the time he had the archangel in chains at his feet, Gabriel would never have dared such disrespect. 

Aziraphale had thought this was what he wanted: someone pliable, submissive, cowed. But this snarling, defiant creature, all froth and fury, begging Aziraphale to beat him down and fighting back with all his strength, this was a new kind of challenge. And breaking him would be all the more satisfying. 

“I’ve just had a very enlightening conversation with someone who’s quite interested in you, and where you’ve ended up.”

Gabriel continued to glare at him.

“He seems to think you belong with him, and I believe he intends to come here and retrieve you at some point in the future.”

Aziraphale watched intently as Gabriel processed his words. Something like hope, tinged with a vengeful anticipation, sparked in the archangel’s eyes. 

“However, I don’t think that will be good for all involved. It’s clear you need more guidance than you’ve been receiving. Keeping you in check is a task I feel myself best suited for. And so you will not be leaving here.”

“Fuck you,” Gabriel spat.

Aziraphale decided not to respond to the little outburst. He had more to explain, and he would not be interrupted or distracted. 

“Unfortunately, I’m not sure my contact will be happy to let you remain here if it appears to be against your will. And so you will be asking, clearly and politely, to be allowed to stay.”

Gabriel laughed, a jagged sound from a raw throat, and rolled his eyes. Aziraphale was used to that dismissive, disdainful attitude from his former boss. It no longer troubled him, now that he knew the cure. 

“You’re very lucky,” Aziraphale mused, reaching out again to ruffle Gabriel’s hair. Again the archangel tried to pull away to avoid the touch, but between the chains at his wrists and the wall at his back, there wasn’t much he could do. “My first little dove, his training was comprehensive from the start. But you only need to learn one simple trick for now.”

Gabriel’s breath came in angry heaves as he squirmed under Aziraphale’s hand. 

“Now, repeat after me: ‘Please, I want to stay here.’”

Gabriel said nothing, setting his jaw defiantly. 

“It’s only six words, none of them more than a single syllable. Surely the great mouthpiece of the Lord can manage that?”

“I’ll kill you,” Gabriel hissed. 

“No, not quite.” Aziraphale stood and crossed the small room to pick up the gloves and hellfire whip. With a snap of his fingers, Gabriel was on his feet, his wrists hung from the ceiling, his back fully exposed. 

Aziraphale brought the whip down and Gabriel grunted in pain, clearly still fighting the urge to scream. Sighing like an exasperated schoolteacher, Aziraphale hit him again, and again, waiting for the archangel’s will to break. 

When it seemed like Gabriel was reaching a limit, Aziraphale stepped closer, whispering into his captive’s ear. “As soon as you say those six words, this all stops.” 

Gabriel said nothing, but he no longer had the energy to try and twist away.

“You don’t even have to mean them,” Aziraphale said, tracing the whip’s bloody leather over Gabriel’s back and making the archangel groan. “And no one else is here. All you do is earn yourself a little bit of mercy. A reprieve. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Gabriel remained silent, and Aziraphale had a private chuckle at the irony. “All that talking...all those useless words. But now, you just don’t feel like speaking? I thought you loved the sound of your own voice. If I were you, I’d be taking full advantage. It isn’t every day I give your other little friend permission to talk, let alone demand to hear him.”

It was clear, though, that Gabriel would continue to refuse him. No matter. Aziraphale had plenty of time to swing his whip.

But even he was surprised by how long the archangel managed to last. Aziraphale had already used two miracles to undo the soreness in his shoulder, and he was starting to grow frustrated. 

“You will obey me eventually,” Aziraphale shouted, tossing the whip aside and snapping his fingers to let Gabriel’s body crash to the floor. “You’re only prolonging your own suffering by refusing.”

Gabriel didn’t move or make a sound, which did little to reduce Aziraphale’s anger. He knew he had to get control of the situation - and himself - if he was going to be successful in breaking the archangel in the time he had. 

So he took a deep breath and tried a new tactic. “I’ll make you a little compromise. Since this is clearly so difficult for you, let’s try something easier. We’ll start with the first word: Please. You just say “please,” and the whip goes away. It’s good manners, and we can practice the rest later. All you need to do is say “please.”

Gabriel lifted his face from the blood-soaked floor and opened his mouth to croak out another Enochian curse, this one so offensive Aziraphale would simply not tolerate it. 

“Enough!” Aziraphale called down another silencing miracle. “If you don’t want to speak appropriately, then you’ll lose the privilege entirely.” He threw a pad of paper and a pen at Gabriel. “You can write your words down, if you decide you want to be reasonable.”

Gabriel kicked at the objects, sending them flying across the room. Clearly, Aziraphale was not the only being who had reached his capacity for patience.

“Fine,” Aziraphale seethed. “Write it in your own blood, then. Let’s see if you can outlast this.”

Aziraphale relished the look of terror that gripped Gabriel’s features when he reached for the blade. 

“Not too late,” Aziraphale taunted, standing over the prone archangel with the knife in his hand, considering where he might press it this time. Not the chest, or the back - he liked the idea of a completely blank canvas, unscarred and ready for him, and now was not the time to start working on permanent brands. “Are you going to be good, and say what you need to, or do I need to hurt you again?”

Gabriel did nothing to indicate that he was ready to behave, and so Aziraphale knelt down beside him and took one of the archangel’s ankles in his hand. He held the blade close to the soft, bare skin of Gabriel’s foot, waiting for that moment of desperation, that pleading look, that would tell him he had won.

It didn’t come. So Aziraphale did what he had threatened - he held the blade flat against the bottom of Gabriel’s foot while the archangel kicked and struggled. This time, he made sure the burn went deep enough that he was sure it would have the right effect. He left Gabriel, face contorted in a silent howl, wondering how long it would take now.

Sure enough, a few hours later, Aziraphale was very satisfied to see the word _PLEASE_ smeared in bloody letters on the wallpaper and a wild-eyed Gabriel huddled below them.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans continue to form.

The bed was soft and Aziraphale had told him to sleep, so Gabriel found it easier than usual to slip into the unconscious state he had only recently begun to enjoy. If he dreamt, he did not remember them. It was as if time passed without his awareness or even his existence at all. 

When he woke, the light in the bedroom was bright, which he knew meant it was mid-day. He’d gone to sleep late in the night, so it must have been hours, if not longer, since he had fallen asleep. 

Gabriel got quickly out of bed, trying to “make” it the way the other Aziraphale had taught him, though it never looked as neat and tidy as he knew the angel preferred. He felt guilty for his outburst, his meltdown, for needing to be half-carried up to bed, for falling asleep rather than helping Crowley and Aziraphale make a plan.

But he also felt guilty for upsetting Crowley, for showing him such disgusting memories, for causing such a fuss. Perhaps he should stay here and give them their space rather than rushing downstairs to ruin everything again. Gabriel paced back and forth, trying to figure out which would be less rude, until a knock on the door startled him out of his internal debate. 

“I thought I heard you were up,” Aziraphale said, pushing the door open. “Are you hungry?”

“No, thank you,” Gabriel said. 

“Do you want to come downstairs and sit with us? We’ve gotten a bit farther with the plan, if you want to hear it.”

When they got downstairs, Crowley gave him a sheepish smile and wave from his spot on the sofa. Gabriel didn’t know how to respond, so he tried returning the wave while keeping his eyes averted. 

“We’re lucky in one regard, at least.” Aziraphale sat down next to Crowley, who stiffened before slowly reaching for the angel’s hand. “Both of the beings who would pose a threat to us are angels, meaning they are uniquely susceptible to hellfire. With Crowley here, we can -”

“No,” Gabriel said, his mouth feeling dry and his legs feeling weak. His heart was pounding, and he slowly lowered himself into a chair without looking to see which one it was. “No, he’s...he’s immune.”

“What?” Crowley sounded incredulous. 

“He is. He can control hellfire, use it like a demon.”

“So, he fell,” Aziraphale said. “He’s fallen?”

“No, no…” Gabriel shook his head, trying to come up with the words to explain the absolute and undeniable cosmic force that was the Aziraphale he knew. “He’s got special powers. Beyond holiness, beyond...everything.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Aziraphale said, frowning. “It isn’t possible for an angel to resist, let alone channel, hellfire.”

Gabriel didn’t know what else to say. He wouldn’t have believed it either, right up until the moment he saw it with his own eyes. And then experienced the reality of Aziraphale’s power with all his other senses. 

“If he’s really that powerful,” Crowley said, “then we need a way to stop him from using his powers.”

“There isn’t any,” Aziraphale replied. “Nothing has ever been developed that can truly suppress an angel’s celestial might. Or, for that matter, a demon’s infernal powers.”

Crowley huffed, an irritated little sound, then spoke. “Wrong.”

“What do you mean, dearest?”

Gabriel watched the two converse, so different and yet so similar to the two beings he had known before. Aziraphale, with his affections draped over Crowley, yet patient and gentle. Crowley, sharp-tongued but skittish. 

“Heaven has these collars,” Crowley mumbled, rubbing his own neck as if he imagined a phantom collar around it. “Knocks my powers right out. And...other things.”

“How dreadful,” Aziraphale breathed. “But we don’t know if they’d work on angels.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Crowley said. “Don’t even know where the blessed thing is.”

“I have it.” Gabriel spoke up despite himself, trying not to cringe at the way both Crowley and Aziraphale’s attention snapped immediately to him. “I...I didn’t want to leave it there. I brought it here. I’m sorry.”

“That’s right!” Aziraphale jumped from his seat and made for the breakfast nook, where the sackcloth and some less incriminating paperwork were still piled. He held the silver object up to his face, inspecting it and fiddling with the locking mechanism. “Now, to see if it works on angels.”

“Aziraphale, no!” Crowley was on his feet now, but he didn’t move toward the kitchen.

“Hm?”

“Once it’s on, you can’t - it doesn’t come off. Don’t put that on, angel.”

“Well how did it get off you?” Aziraphale was now holding the collar a bit farther away from himself, eyeing it.

Crowley stammered something, and Gabriel could tell that Crowley didn’t have an answer. He probably didn’t remember. “I - I don’t -”

“I did it,” Gabriel said again, twisting his hands together to keep them from coming up to cover his face. “The thing, it responds to me. I can remove it.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said. “Well, if Gabriel took it off you, it stands to reason that he’ll be able to take it off me as well, right?

“Please, angel.” Crowley held up his hands as if he were bargaining. “We’ll find some other way. Just - don’t. Don’t put that on.”

“We need to know if it works on angels, dear. It could be our only ticket.”

“I’ll try it,” Gabriel volunteered. They were only having to face down his terrifying, all-powerful Aziraphale because he was a selfish git who insisted on going back home. And even though he wasn’t present for it, it was in a way  _ Gabriel _ who had put the collar on Crowley in the first place, so if anyone deserved to wear it again, it was him.

Crowley said nothing.

“But we’re trying to put it on me - well, some version of me - and who’s to say it’s possible to remove it from yourself? Let’s all stop being silly, put our brave faces on, and see if this works.”

There was a stubborn fire in Aziraphale’s voice, but it wasn’t the vicious one Gabriel was used to hearing. He seemed to be speaking to himself more than anyone else. 

But when the angel flipped the thing open and brought it to his neck, Crowley’s anguished cry was enough to make him pause. 

“Or, perhaps,” Azirpahale coughed, replacing the collar on the breakfast table, “we ought to take a bit more time to understand just what we’re getting ourselves into.”

Aziraphale rejoined Crowley on the sofa and a discussion commenced, one in which Crowley did his best to relay all that he knew about the collar, and Aziraphale asked Gabriel to make a few requests from the manual, which only seemed to produce information when Gabriel asked.

Through it all, Gabriel did his best to ignore the baleful looks Crowley was sending his way. This all must be difficult for the demon, facing down the implement that was so central to his torture and watching Gabriel breezily command it.

Eventually, it was decided that Aziraphale would put the collar on himself, at which point Gabriel would immediately turn the dial down to 01, wait for Aziraphale to signal that he had determined its efficacy in suppressing his powers, and then remove it.

Crowley hovered anxiously over them Aziraphale sat primly on the sofa, turned to face Gabriel, who sat beside him. Gabriel felt the responsibility of the moment weighing on him. If he allowed Aziraphale to suffer a fraction of a second longer than necessary, he would lose all of the demon’s trust, and he’d deserve it. Not to mention the absolute injustice of such an act, when all Aziraphale was trying to do was help him.

The angel’s hands trembled and his throat moved with a determined swallow as he set the hateful metal ring around his neck, then instantly made a low gasp as if he’d been punched in the gut. With Crowley quite literally breathing down his own neck, Gabriel quickly twisted the dial. 

He and Crowley both held their breath and watched as Aziraphale lifted one hand, snapped his fingers, then grimaced and nodded. 

Gabriel quickly yanked the collar off with such force that it left his hand and skittered across the floor. Crowley collapsed in relief, crumpled into an overstuffed chair nearby.

“Do be careful,” Aziraphale said with a forced laugh, one hand on his chest. “I can assuredly say that that will prove quite useful.”

  
  


***

Somehow, the pain dulled enough for Gabriel to take a few ragged breaths. There was Aziraphale, sitting on the floor next to him, looking down at him with a condescending smile. 

“I see you finally decided to do what was best for everyone,” Aziraphale said, and Gabriel couldn’t muster the energy for any kind of response. His back felt like it was on fire, and his foot throbbed. He knew he’d eventually given up and scrawled the stupid human word Aziraphale wanted, and it made him sick to see just how vindicated Aziraphale seemed to feel. 

“Now, I’ll make you a deal,” Aziraphale said. Gabriel hated how intensely he was listening to the other angel, as if his very existence hung on Aziraphale’s next words. He wanted to be able to scoff, to ignore the underling, to choose what he deemed important. But it seemed like all his focus had narrowed, and it felt extremely important that he hear everything Aziraphale had to say. “I’ll lift the silencing miracle, and if you can say the whole thing, we’ll take a real break. I’ll even help you feel better. You can have a nap, if you want. Okay?”

Gabriel didn’t realize he was agreeing until he felt himself nod. 

“Good, that’s good.” Aziraphale passed a hand over Gabriel’s lips and he felt the heavy, oppressive miracle disappear. “Let’s hear it. Please, I want to stay here.”

Gabriel’s lips felt cold, numb. His teeth seemed to be knocking together. The memory of the hellfire blade was too much to resist. “P...please.” 

“That’s the first word,” Aziraphale said. “Now let’s hear the rest.”

“Please,” Gabriel gasped. But he couldn’t get the rest out. Whether it was his pride or just his exhausted body that refused to comply, he couldn’t manage to give any more than he already had. Writing in his own blood was a line he had crossed, but this was something he hadn’t yet surrendered. It was all he had left. 

He knew what Aziraphale was doing. He’d done the very same thing to Crowley. Set up pointless, pathetic little hills for the prisoner to die on. Gave him something to resist, then forced him to accept it. Presented something to cling to, then made him give it up. 

Well, it might have worked on the demon. He was already weakened, corrupted. Gabriel wouldn’t be so easily broken. 

“No,” he breathed, enjoying the anger in Aziraphale’s eyes when the angel realized he’d been thwarted. 

“Shame,” Aziraphale said, snapping his fingers and calling the thin, cruel cane from the desk to his hand. “I really do think you could use a break.”

The caning started, and Gabriel could hardly stand it. After a few lashes on his already mangled back, he could not remember why it had been so important that he endure this rather than do what Aziraphale asked. 

After all, it was just a few words. He didn’t have to mean them. And it wasn’t like they had any impact here, now. Aziraphale wanted him to plead with some mystery interlocutor to be allowed to stay here, but this was just practice. It didn’t matter how many times he said them to Aziraphale. In the moment, Gabriel could say whatever he liked. 

So what was he holding out for? His body begged for an answer that he could not give. He had a way to end this pain with no real consequences. Sure, Aziraphale would take it as a win, but it would be hollow. Gabriel could choose to give this surrender no weight, no meaning. He did not need to die on this hill. He didn’t even want the hill in the first place. Perhaps the hill had never even existed. 

No. He would save his strength for what mattered. It was foolish to put pride ahead of survival. 

Having convinced himself of the reasonableness of his choice, Gabriel found it easy to cry out the sentence Aziraphale was so invested in hearing. 

“There you go.” True to his word, Aziraphale dropped the cane, and Gabriel caught his breath. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Gabriel said nothing. He tried to revel in his own private victory, having pulled one over on the angel, made him stop hurting Gabriel without actually receiving anything in return. But mostly, he felt tired, and confused. If it was so easy to control Aziraphale and end the caning, why had he waited so long? And if giving the angel what he wanted was truly an empty gesture, why did he feel so drained? 

Something didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. 

“I promised you a break,” Aziraphale said, and Gabriel realized through the haze of his thoughts that Aziraphale was still talking. He heard another finger snap, and then the soft splashing of water. Aziraphale was dabbing at Gabriel’s wounds with a cloth doused in cool water.

_ Bastard, _ Gabriel thought.  _ He could have just healed me _ . This thought faded away, though, as Gabriel realized it was so much more pleasant to focus on the sensation of the water, cold enough to soothe the pain. He let himself melt into the relief. He had fought for it, traded for it, bargained for it, and it would be a waste not to receive it.

Aziraphale was tugging on Gabriel’s shoulders, and he found himself pulled closer to the angel, his head resting in Azirpahale’s lap, his body curled enough that all the burning, stinging injuries could be reached by whatever salve Aziraphale was applying. 

“Sshhh,” Aziraphale murmured, stroking Gabriel’s hair with the hand that wasn’t tending to the whip lashes and cane stripes. “You did good, you’ve earned this. See what happens when you obey me? Relax and have your reward.”

Gabriel knew he ought to be fighting back, sneering away Aziraphale’s strange attentions, ignoring the angel’s attempts to control him. But his body would do nothing but twitch limply under the gentle cloth, and it was not difficult to give in, let his eyes fall closed, while promising himself that he would rally his strength afterwards, that he would reinforce his defenses, that this was a strategic retreat rather than a battle whose loss signaled worse fates.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a panic attack. 
> 
> This chapter has absolutely nothing to do with the overall plot here and is just an excuse to explore a handful of angst avenues inspired or suggested on the darkfic server.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter does have an accompanying DiP!Crowley-POV bit, but it's VERY different from this chapter and contains an angst-source diverges pretty strongly from DoSverse and might be a no-go for some people, so I want to give folks a chance to skip it without missing anything else - so it'll go up later as its own chapter. That one will also be entirely insignificant to the plot and basically just a standalone scene.

Crowley hadn’t meant to give up entirely. He only intended to go upstairs for a few minutes, take a short break, catch his breath.

It wasn’t easy, watching Aziraphale messing about with the collar that had brought him to such helpless despair. And it was equally difficult knowing that the angel was hard at work on finding the cosmic coordinates that would bring him, once again, face to face with the creature who had used the collar to such devastating effect.

Crowley had done his best to cooperate, to be supportive, to at least remain present in the downstairs sitting room while Aziraphale while all this was going on. 

But it was all too much. Especially after the scenes Gabriel had shown him, at his own foolish demand, which left him feeling shaken and guilty. Guilt was an unfamiliar notion to Crowley these days, after his long captivity in Heaven. He certainly felt humiliated and ashamed, but he had no power, no agency, no ability to do anything he might actually feel guilty about. In Heaven, Crowley was so thoroughly a victim that he never had much cause to worry about his own impact on another.

Now, though, he felt sorry for the way he’d wounded and accused Gabriel, who didn’t deserve such recrimination. He also felt peevish, though, annoyed at the fact of his own guilt. The injustice of the whole mess still rankled the demon, and he didn’t appreciate the sudden necessity of considering the feelings of another tormented soul, especially one whose countenance set his own nerves aflame.

So he had mumbled some excuse and retired upstairs to the bedroom, planning to have a short breather before rejoining the angels downstairs. Then he had sat down on the bed, felt his weight sink into the soft mattress, and knew he couldn’t bring himself to move again. His every muscle felt completely drained, his mind foggy.

Crowley let himself flop onto his side and tugged the blankets up around himself, muttering promises to himself that he’d only rest a minute, that he’d be back downstairs any minute. But the bone-deep weariness was stronger even than his own sense of obligation to Aziraphale, and soon he was asleep.

He did not know how long he slept, but Crowley didn’t have much time to consider his inadvertent nap once he realized what had awoken him.

The wards. 

Aziraphale had covered the house in powerful wards when Crowley first arrived, and did his best to convince the demon that all was safe within the walls of the bookshop.

Now, they were calling out with a metaphysical claxon, letting all the inhabitants know that another supernatural being was attempting to make an entrance.

Crowley leapt out of bed and threw open the bedroom door. He only made it a few steps down the hallway before he heard her.

Michael.

His insides turned to ice, but his skin felt as if it had been set alight. Crowley’s lungs became suddenly useless, leaving him nearly gasping as he stumbled forward, curled up on the landing, listening to the scene downstairs. 

“Aziraphale. What is the meaning of all this? Where is Gabriel?”

The sound of Michael’s voice - haughty, self-assured, cool - made Crowley squeeze his eyes shut, one hand wrapped around the wooden banister rails so tightly he worried it might splinter.

Crowley heard Aziraphale stammering through some kind of greeting. Sick terror gripped him. He knew how dangerous Michael and her colleagues were, how much power Heaven wielded and how cruel they were willing to be. He needed to go downstairs, needed to protect Aziraphale.

Needed to do something.

But his body refused to move. He was glued to his spot, crouched like an eavesdropping child at the top of the stairs. It felt almost like the times Gabriel had twisted his bones and snapped his ligaments badly enough that his limbs were paralyzed. No matter how strong, how desperate, how insistent were the signals his mind sent to his body, he remained still. Helpless. Trapped.

Then the door to Gabriel’s room opened and the archangel, still in that jogging outfit, appeared. His eyes were wide, and he looked startled. Crowley figured he must have also heard the ward’s alarm, and come out to see what was going on.

He looked down at Crowley, fearful curiosity on his face, his expression asking wordlessly  _ What’s going on? _

Crowley was still too frozen to answer, but he managed to point a shaking finger downstairs, where the sounds of an irritated Michael and a floundering Aziraphale were rising from.

For an instant, Gabriel looked as petrified as Crowley. Then a sort of spell seemed to come over him, and Crowley watched as the archangel straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and then snapped his fingers.

The sight of a self-possessed Gabriel, nary a hair out of place, now wearing one of his trademarked suits, set an alarm blaring in Crowley’s head that was magnitudes louder than the chiming of the wards only a few seconds earlier. 

Gabriel made his way quickly down the stairs, and Crowley felt his eyes slam shut and his body begin to tremble as he heard the archangel’s booming voice.

“Michael? What are you doing here?”

Crowley pried his eyelids open through sheer force of will, though that was about the limit of his ability to move or otherwise control himself. Through the banister, he could see Gabriel’s back, crisply outlined in his suit jacket. Gabriel clapped one heavy hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, then leaned over to speak through the half-open front door.

Michael sounded irritated, a threatening tenor on her voice that did nothing to assuage Crowley’s panic. “I’d like to ask you the same question! What are you doing with the demon here on earth, and why all the wards?”

“Michael, Michael, Michael,” Gabriel intoned, chuckling a bit under his breath. The cool condescension in his voice made Crowley feel nauseated. “You should know how sometimes my work requires me to make unilateral and immediate decisions. I assure you, everything is fine here, and your presence is not required.”

“But - with  _ him _ ?” 

Michael’s suspicion of Aziraphale made sense, and Crowley knew that they’d been caught. There was no way the shattered, stuttering version of Gabriel could talk them out of this. Crowley felt a heavy dread settle in his chest. He was a fool to think he had truly managed to escape Heaven, that his nightmare was actually over. 

“Aziraphale is now part of the project, and he’s been doing excellent work. The wards are for our safety while we manage the demon.”

“Are you sure?” Michael was trying to peer inside the bookshop, though the wards prevented her from coming in. “Did you put its collar back on, at least?”

Crowley couldn’t breathe, choked on his own fear. This was it. Michael was here, and she would get him, just like they did last time. That hateful collar would go back on him and never come off again. It was here, in this house - why hadn’t he insisted it be destroyed?- and Michael was going to take it, and take him, back to that place. 

He told himself to run, to get up and move, but it was no use. All he felt was his hands, rock hard in tight fists around the banister, as if he could cling hard enough to the pieces of this house that he might have a chance at staying. 

_ When Michael comes, are you just going to kick and thrash like a child?  _

Yes. He would - that’s just what a person does, when they’re scared enough, when they hurt bad enough. Crowley knew exactly what he’d do when trapped under the bootheel of Heaven. He’d done it plenty of times already. 

But Michael wasn’t coming up the stairs toward him. Instead, once he managed to tune his attention back to the three angels and their conversation, Michael was grumbling some kind of goodbye and Aziraphale was shutting the door, letting loose an epic sigh of relief as soon as he did to.

Gabriel didn’t seem to share in that relief, though. He instantly started backing away from Aziraphale, his posture cringing, hands out, babbling apologies. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” the archangel was saying, “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t -”

“Oh, thank you!” Aziraphale said at almost the same time. “That was wonderful. I didn’t know what I’d say, but you looked great -”

At this, Gabriel seemed to realize for the first time that he was no longer wearing the jogging suit he’d spent the last few days in.

“No, no, I’m sorry!” He snapped his fingers in a frantic motion and was suddenly wearing the same ancient sackcloth he’d conjured in the elevator.

“Oh my. Er…” Aziraphale was beyond flustered, having gone from facing down a hostile archangel to finding one nearly prostrate at his feet. 

Crowley wanted to go to Aziraphale, to do something, anything; to hold his angel after the abject terror of losing him again, to feel something besides nearly-splintering wood under his hands. He made to head downstairs, but as he stood from his hiding spot he felt a strange rushing in his head, as if his skull were at once too empty and too full, and collapsed back onto the floor, trying to catch his breath.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale stopped looking baffled at Gabriel and raced upstairs, gathering the demon into his arms.

Crowley was too drained by now to feel embarrassed. He curled up against the warmth of the angel, still suffocated by overwhelming panic but feeling it all start to lessen as Aziraphale held him close. 

“That was a close call,” Aziraphale breathed, nuzzling against Crowley’s ear.

It felt nice, hearing the gravity of the incident spoken by someone else, someone also riding this dark and awful sea beside him. Crowley nodded, still far too shaken to speak as he clung to Aziraphale’s waistcoat. 

Aziraphale murmured a few more comforting things, which all blended together into the hum of the angel’s voice. Crowley felt himself lifted and moved, then he was nestled in bed with the familiar weight of Aziraphale wrapped around him. He slept.

The light was much different when Crowley awoke, and he realized it was just the lamplight in the bedroom. The sun was no longer up. He’d slept all day, at the very least. 

Aziraphale was gone, but Crowley didn’t mind. He could sense the angel’s loving presence filling the whole room - Aziraphale was close by, and he was making sure Crowley knew it. 

Crowley smiled and stretched. He felt refreshed, though still a bit raw, like a child scrubbed clean in a hot bath. He pulled on a fresh set of clothes, then headed downstairs.

The scene that greeted him gave Crowley a strange sense of deja vu. Aziraphale was sitting on the sofa, his nose in a book. Gabriel, who had changed back into the joggers, was on the floor nearby, his head resting on the sofa. He and Aziraphale weren’t touching, but Gabriel was close enough that Aziraphale could have reached out his hand and rested it comfortably on the archangel’s head or shoulder.

It occurred to Crowley where he’d seen this before. When Gabriel showed him the memories required to explain just what he’d meant when he said that, in his world, Aziraphale had accused him of “seduction,” he hadn’t just made Crowley privy to the horrible violations he’d been victim to (acts that weren’t exactly sex, but weren’t just torture, either, a unique type of brutality Crowley was himself quite familiar with after his time in Heaven), but he’d also included a handful of other images, moments that didn’t focus on the agony Aziraphale was causing but on someone else entirely.

Images of Crowley, or someone who looked like him, gently stroking Gabriel’s hair. Of his lap, a safe harbor for a weary archangel to lay his head. Of sorrowful, sympathetic eyes. 

Crowley didn’t know whether Gabriel had meant to show him those scenes. Perhaps it was all just too tangled up for his mind to piece them out and exercise much control over what he shared. Crowley didn’t think he’d be able to pick out and convey specific memories of Gabriel, especially under stress. 

Or, perhaps Gabriel had been trying to communicate something to Crowley, something too tender for words, something his mind needed to say in its own way. 

Crowley sighed softly. His sense of care for the strange archangel had only deepened after he witnessed the way Gabriel’s experiences had eerily mirrored his own. And then he’d witnessed Gabriel surmount his own shock in a precarious moment, throwing all of himself into protecting Crowley and Aziraphale. 

Though Gabriel’s eyes were closed, Crowley could tell he wasn’t sleeping. Delicately, Crowley took a spot on the couch next to Aziraphale without making contact with the archangel. But then big purple eyes met Crowley’s, looking up at him with a guileless sadness.

“May I?” Crowley asked quietly, slowly extending a hand toward Gabriel.

Gabriel nodded, and it wasn’t the frantic, prey animal twitches he usually used to communicate. It was slow, deliberate, clear. The archangel closed his eyes and smiled, his whole body relaxing as Crowley made gentle circles on his scalp.

Crowley found himself relaxing too, the last remnants of the morning’s tension fading as his breathing matched the archangel’s steady pace.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER INCLUDES SOME STUFF NOT LISTED IN THE MAIN TAGS: forced drugging, dark!Crowley (ish), and A-on-C noncon/violence. It is also a standalone one-off that doesn't have anything to do with the rest of the plot. So please be mindful of that!

Crowley wasn’t surprised find Aziraphale at the table that morning - the angel was spending more and more time studying his books, especially the strange blank book he was using to communicate with what he claimed was another reality. 

He was, however, surprised to see the concern in Aziraphale’s eyes when the angel finally looked up from the book and scroll strewn kitchen table. It was rare, these days, to see such warmth from Aziraphale, and Crowley was immediately suspicious.

“Crowley, dear.” Aziraphale patted the seat next to him, inviting Crowley to come sit. The demon didn’t exactly feel like it, but he had no good reason not to, and it was becoming clear that he ought to save his strength when it came to arguing with Aziraphale. Better to give in when it didn’t much matter. Crowley slid into the dining room chair, peering down at the piece of paper Aziraphale was pointing to.

“I’ve determined our cosmic coordinates,” Aziraphale said, tapping the paper. Crowley could see an incredibly complex drawing composed of angular strokes, triangles and diamonds, crossed through with looping curls that looked like some sort of alien cursive. “I’ll be providing them to our counterparts soon, so that they can arrive here and we can address the troublesome situation of our Gabriel at large.”

“Mmhmm.” Crowley was pretty sure everything would go on just fine if the archangel Aziraphale considered ‘his’ never returned to this plane of existence, but he still didn’t have the energy to argue.

“There is a bit of a problem - or, well, a risk. And I wanted to speak with you about it.”

Great. Aziraphale probably wanted more of this awful cuffs, or another watch, or something even more ridiculous. Crowley had already seen one situation spiral out of control, and he wasn’t about to make that mistake a second time. “I’m not making you any more stuff, Aziraphale.”

“I know that this has been hard on you,” Aziraphale said, ignoring Crowley’s refusal. “You’ve been wonderful, love, so helpful and supportive through all this.” Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his own, his expression full of gratitude. 

Crowley knew better than to trust that old trick. In fact, he was pretty sure he’d been the one to invent it. “What do you want?”

“I’m worried about you, Crowley. About your safety. I always have. That’s what this has only ever been about - protecting you.”

At that, Crowley couldn’t contain himself. He scoffed, rolling his eyes, and slid his hand out from under Aziraphale’s. “Right.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed, and Crowley could hear a sharply held breath, Aziraphale ready to snap at him, to sharply correct him, to pick a fight.

But then that breath exhaled, and Aziraphale appeared to force himself to calm down and continue speaking lovingly to Crowley. “I’m afraid that there are powers I didn’t anticipate when I initially asked you for help. That’s my mistake, love, and I hope you can accept my full apology.”

Something told Crowley that this ‘full apology’ would be immediately followed by Aziraphale wanting him to do something, to make yet one more compromise that would blacken his soul even further and make it that much harder to sleep at night.

“Sure, angel,” was all he said.

“Unfortunately, I’ve seen into this Gabriel’s thoughts and memories, and not only does he harbor extreme malice toward you, it seems that he’s long been able and willing to act on that malice. If left to his own devices, Gabriel wouldn’t hesitate to kidnap and brutalize you, my dear, as he’s done before.”

“Gabriel never touched me,” Crowley sighed. “At least not until you locked him up here, put those cuffs on him in the first place -”

“Please understand,” Aziraphale said, and his teeth were unmistakably gritted even as he tried to keep his tone light. “You may not have experienced the depths of Gabriel’s cruelty firsthand, but it is directed at you, and he’s harmed you before, albeit in another world.”

Crowley wanted to slam his head on the table. Instead, he just stared out the window, refusing to give Aziraphale the tactical benefit of looking into his eyes. 

“Allow me to explain myself,” Aziraphale continued, and Crowley did just that, let him keep talking, listening without much response. “In the reality that this Gabriel knows, he has the power and the technology to do grave harm to his version of you, as well as to me. Whatever you think of Gabriel, you must know that there are two innocent beings at risk if he regains access to them.”

Crowley wasn’t so sure about Aziraphale’s declaration that whoever these alternative Crowley and Aziraphale were, they were “innocent.” Certainly neither he nor the Aziraphale he knew were wholly undeserving of suffering.

“Since we don’t yet understand the specific nature of the phenomenon that allowed the Gabriel of our world to switch places with another Gabriel, we risk seeing it reversed, which could spell disaster for all parties involved. We also know that this transition through timelines doesn’t include the watch or cuffs, which means that this Gabriel would be entirely unrestrained should he return.”

An unrestrained Gabriel in a completely different universe didn’t sound like Crowley’s problem or his responsibility. Heck, he didn’t even want to have anything to with a  _ restrained _ Gabriel in this  _ universe _ .

“I believe I’ve found a solution, but I worry you’ll find it distasteful, and I simply wish to convince you -”

“Just tell me what you want,” Crowley said, exasperated. 

Again, Aziraphale tapped on the paper where he’d worked out their cosmic coordinates. “If we can bind him to this realm, then even if he were to leave, we could call him back, thus preventing him from continuing to abuse his power elsewhere.”

“And just how do ‘we’ plan on doing such a binding?”

“Er, well,” Aziraphale began, and Crowley knew he wasn’t going to like the answer. “It seems that if the coordinates were somehow embedded in his true form -”

“You want to  _ brand _ an archangel?” Crowley was incredulous. “And you want me to be party to it?”

“It needs to be Hellfire, dear, or it won’t remain with him when his corporation shifts. I thought about simply using the knife you crafted for me, or the whip, or the cane tip, all of which you were willing to create, surely you remember -”

“I remember,” Crowley snapped.

“The work is too delicate, unfortunately. Cosmic coordinates are tricky, and if one stroke or angle is off, it’s just a gibberish symbol. And when it comes to the knife, well, one slip and we’re in danger of losing him - and I’m no longer sure he would actually be destroyed. He could simply be discorporated or move to another plane, which, again -”

“Right, right. Can’t have that.”

“Please, Crowley -”

“I’m not doing this, Aziraphale. Stop asking me.”

“Would you consider a compromise?”

Crowley hadn’t heard that word from Aziraphale in a long, long time. He knew he ought to show good faith, or at least, to reward the desired behavior. “What compromise?”

“Go see him one more time. Take a look at those memories. And then decide.”

Crowley sighed. Aziraphale had already engineered one situation designed to convince Crowley that Gabriel was too dangerous for anything but eternal subjugation, but all he saw was a desperate, cornered animal, a creature lashing out in the exact kind of confused hatred that ongoing torture engenders.

Aziraphale seemed to think seeing these memories would change something for Crowley. Well, at least Crowley could prove him wrong in that respect.

“What if he won’t show me?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “We’ll see. Please, love, just...make an informed decision, okay?”

“Alright, but I don’t want you in the room. Just him and me. I’ll be careful.”

“Thank you so much, Crowley.” Aziraphale lifted the demon’s hand as if to kiss it, but Crowley withdrew it, standing up and heading for the backroom. Time to get this over with.

Crowley was relieved to find the archangel chained simply to the floor by both wrists, rather than in some kind of grotesque stress position Aziraphale had seen fit to leave him in. 

“You’ll pay for this,” Gabriel growled as soon as he looked up and registered who it was. “I promise you, sweetheart -”

“Stop it,” Crowley snapped, though there wasn’t much venom in his tone. “I’m not your sweetheart, and you know that, so just...stop.”

“He asked me that, too,” Gabriel taunted, his violet eyes glaring in the low light of the backroom. “ _ Stop, stop, please, stop! _ ” Gabriel pitched his voice up, performing an impression of his own victim. " _Anything, please, make it stop! Oh, stop_!"

“Yeah, about that.” Crowley stepped closer to Gabriel, towering over him for a moment before crouching down so they were face to face. “I want to know more. What you did, to him - to me. I want you to show me.” Crowley tapped his own temple, in case his words weren’t clear.

At first, Gabriel scoffed, tossing his head like the request was beyond absurd. But then his gaze turned steely, and he seemed to be considering something. 

“Alright,” the archangel said, and Crowley did his best not to feel unsettled by the wolfish grin that accompanied Gabriel’s agreement. “Since you asked.”

Crowley tipped himself forward, letting the crown of his head touch Gabriel’s. 

As soon as the gates to Gabriel’s mind opened, it felt like closing his fist around an electrical fence. Crowley wanted to pull away, but the strength of Gabriel’s will was overwhelming, and Crowley was helpless.

He felt his mind flood with images. There was himself, wretched and defiled, squirming in pain, seen through eyes that held nothing but hatred and contempt. He heard his own screams, raw in his throat, saw his own face bloodied and battered, felt the satisfaction of his captor. He no longer knew who he was - the pathetic, writhing creature trapped in endless darkness, or the vision’s conjurer, sadistic and enraged.

Despair smothered Crowley, the shrieking terror of Aziraphale’s loss, the intolerable knowledge that he would never see his angel again, that he would never see anyone again, or anything, that his world had been reduced to Gabriel and the suffering he wrought, that all was darkness and agony and not even the powers of Hell could rescue him. He heard shouting, but he didn’t know if it was him, or the him in Gabriel’s mind, who was also him.

He saw himself remade in Gabriel’s intention, saw that he was nothing, that he was deserving of humiliation and shame, that he would never be worthy of a shred of mercy, and he wanted to fight it, to resist, but it was being poured into him, into his mind, he’d opened himself up to receive it and he was being filled with hatred for his own self, with the self-annihilating conviction that he was what Gabriel said he was, and it hurt, and it hurt, and - 

“Aaugh!” Crowley finally managed to break contact, hurling himself backwards and scrambling to his feet as he caught his breath. Gabriel was howling with laughter. Aziraphale was there, too, having heard Crowley cry out, but the demon just shoved past him, leaving him and Gabriel behind in that awful room as he tore up the stairs and threw himself into bed, curled up tight in an effort to stop the quaking that had taken hold of him.

A compromise. That’s what Aziraphale had said. Well, it was a compromise he was going to get. Crowley still refused to make any more artifacts of torment for the angel to wield. At the same time, he had become convinced, despite himself, that this iteration of Gabriel was equally dangerous, and that he owed it to the archangel’s other victims to prevent him from regaining the freedom and power he’d apparently used to do the things Crowley had witnessed.

_ Maybe it’s too late for Aziraphale, _ Crowley grumbled to himself as he sat hunched over the desk in his old flat,  _ but I’m not going to be responsible for letting  _ two _ out of control beings rampage around like this.  _

He looked down at the fountain pen, a simple black and gold thing, that he was working on. If he wasn’t willing to let it find its way to Aziraphale’s hands, then the only other option was to use it himself.

Crowley hated the idea - not only because he never wanted to be in the same room as Gabriel again, but because it turned his stomach to know he would be carving Hellfire into the flesh of another. 

_ My soul’s already damned, blackened, complicit,  _ he reminded himself.  _ Don’t let your squeamishness start getting in the way now, you selfish git. _

If he could make Aziraphale that watch and everything else, he could do this. A small sacrifice - what remained of his useless principles - to save everyone else who might have the misfortune of wandering into Gabriel’s path. 

Crowley pocketed the pen, stood up, and took himself back to the bookshop to tell Aziraphale his plan.

Predictably, the angel did not like Crowley’s suggestion that he be the one to brand Gabriel. 

“He’s dangerous, love, and he already tried to harm you once - besides, I’m the one who calculate the coordinates, and it’s all very precise -”

“It happens like this, or it doesn’t happen at all.” Crowley stood his ground, which wasn’t easy after thousands of years of practice catering to the angel’s every whim, of dropping any and all argument wherever Aziraphale was concerned. “And one more thing. If the true purpose of this mark is only to prevent further problems, then it doesn’t stand to reason that needless suffering is required.”

“I’d hardly call it needless,” Aziraphale began, but Crowley cut him off.

“It’ll be easier for me to get the coordinates right if he’s lying still, anyway. We’ll use a miracle to put him out.

“I don’t think that’s wise.”

“Oh? Why not?”

Aziraphale twisted his hands, glancing around the room. Crowley figured he was trying to look like the same nervous, fretful angel that always melted Crowley’s defenses, but it just appeared as if he were casting about for an excuse that would convince Crowley not to magically anesthetize Gabriel.

“Because...well, we’re in uncharted territory here, darling. This is a different Gabriel than the cuffs were designed for, and we don’t yet know how my magics, or yours, will interact with his corporation. If something were to happen - if he were discorporated and returned to Heaven, for instance, or if he were to shift realities again -”

Crowley rolled his eyes. He’d prepared for this refusal on Aziraphale’s part. “If you’re so worried about all that, we’ll do it the human way.” He snapped his fingers and some white pills appeared in his other hand, piled neatly in his outstretched palm.

“He’ll never agree to that,” Aziraphale sniffed, crossing his arms. Clearly, he considered himself an expert on what Gabriel could and could not be persuaded to do, and that expertise was a matter of pride for him. “He doesn’t ‘consume gross matter.’”

“Fine.” Crowley snapped his fingers again and the pills disappeared, having been transported rather abruptly into Gabriel’s corporation. “Should take effect in a few minutes. Won’t knock him all the way out, but it’s...a small mercy.”

_Mercy._ The word stuck on Crowley’s tongue, bitter and sharp. There was no mercy here. No mercy in him, no mercy for him. Just three beings trapped in a cosmic web of their own design, trapping themselves more tightly with each new strand. 

In the back room, Gabriel was already slumped over, his posture a clear sign that the drugs were working. 

“What...what’d you do…” the archangel slurred, directing most of his attention to Crowley even as it was Aziraphale who unchained him and hauled him up onto the wide wooden desk.

Aziraphale stood near Gabriel’s head and shoulders, lying the archangel flat on his back and pinning him down with two strong hands on his chest. Gabriel squirmed and moaned, but his glassy expression made his state clear. 

“Here.” Aziraphale pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and laid it on Gabriel’s bare stomach. Crowley peered down at the cosmic coordinates, tracking each delicate line carefully. 

It occurred to Crowley then that he didn’t have a plan for where he would mark the archangel.  _ Mercy, mercy _ \- the word would not leave his mind, and he asked himself what would be most merciful.

The taut expanse of the archangel’s hipbone seemed a fair spot. Easily covered by nearly any and all fashions, human or Heavenly, and somewhere that Crowley thought he could make the mark small, yet still clear enough to serve its function.

Crowley held the fountain pen in his hand, his breath stilled in his lungs. Gabriel’s eyes went wide at the sight and he kicked feebly, rocking his hips from side to side in an attempt to evade Crowley.

“Hold him,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley did, placing one hand against the archangel’s thigh and pressing down, rendering that leg motionless. 

As soon as the golden nib of the pen hit Gabriel’s skin, he screamed, a low, guttural sound that made Crowley want to run back to Hell and brick himself up in one of the deepest pits for a nice, long, well-deserved stretch of time. 

“Be quiet,” Aziraphale said. “Don’t disturb Crowley. He’ll have to start over, and you don’t want that.”

Gabriel looked confused, betrayed, and somewhat lost as he tried to locate the source of the words, and the source of his pain, his glazed-over eyes darting between Crowley and Aziraphale. 

When Crowley swept the pen across one particularly long and jagged line, Gabriel tried again to kick at him, leading Aziraphale to grab him firmly by the hair while leaning over to pin his legs down. “Stop,” Aziraphale commanded. “Be still.”

Gabriel squeezed his eyes shut, tears flowing down from their corners to pool on the desk. Crowley wished he could do the same, but he just stayed focused, checking his work against the paper Aziraphale had provided, doing his best to ignore the stench of burning flesh and desecrated angelic essence. 

Pitiful sounds continued to emanate from the archangel, whimpers and groans and garbled pleas, as Aziraphale held him, scolding him with resolute gravitas, insisting that this must happen, and that Gabriel must surrender to it.

By the time Crowley finished, Gabriel was weeping, trembling with sobs, rocking his head slowly from side to side, his fists clenched and twitching. Crowley lifted the pen one last time and ran his hand over the wound, healing it in an instant to become a shiny scar. 

Gabriel’s whole body seemed to deflate, relief combined with his drugged stupor to render him completely limp on the table. He made no sound, no movement, as Aziraphale rolled him onto the floor and replaced the tethering chains, only curling up slightly as his eyelids slipped shut and his breathing slowed. 

Crowley was upstairs later that night, doing his best to distract himself from the day’s events by running over some of his favorite former television shows, many of which he’d had a hand in the creation of.

When he felt a strange pang in his gut, he knew immediately what it was. He’d never had any substances magically teleported into his corporation before, but the sensation was unmistakable.

“Angel...what’ve you done…” Crowley managed to say, his tongue heavy and his words woolen, as Aziraphale entered the room.

“You’ve always been so clever,” Aziraphale cooed, advancing on Crowley as the demon collapsed into the bed. “And so sweet. I must thank you, darling, for the idea.”

“You can’t…” Crowley watched helplessly, his muscles refusing to do more than flop and twitch, as Aziraphale set something down on the night table before sitting down next to Crowley.

“I did promise you that I wouldn’t use miracles to meddle with your mind, and I intend to keep that promise.” Aziraphale’s tone was maddeningly calm as he edged closer to Crowley, running his hands over the demon’s body, even dipping down to kiss him on the temple. “But since you demonstrated that this tactic is within your tolerance, morally speaking, you can’t fault me for taking advantage, as well.”

“Fu….Azir...phal…” The room was spinning, the edges of Crowley’s vision blurry, as he tried to convey just how angry he was. 

“I know, I know.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s hair before lowering his hands to Crowley’s collar and beginning to unbutton his shirt.

“Stop,” Crowley muttered, swatting at Aziraphale with his own half-obedient hands. “Don’t…”

“I had hoped to get your permission, dear, to explain the whole situation first, but you’ve been so stubborn about everything. It’s for your own safety, you know I only ever want to keep you safe.”

Crowley forced himself to focus, squinting his eyes and telling his demonic essence to override the nonsense currently turning his corporation into jelly. It only half worked.

Aziraphale lifted a glass of water from the night table, then waved his hand over it, and Crowley could taste the unmistakable tang of holiness in the air. Then he saw what Aziraphale had in his other hand - a slender paintbrush.

“No, no, ‘ngel, please,” Crowley moaned, trying to get his hands under him, trying to lift himself up from the bed. 

“Sshh, shh, settle down.” Aziraphale placed a hand on Crowley’s now bare chest and easily pressed him back down into the bed. “I hate to do this, Crowley, but it’s the only way to protect you. You need the coordinates too, or else I could lose you, and I simply don’t know what I’d do.”

“Unh uh, unh uh!” Crowley shook his head back and forth, rolling it heavily against the pillows, growing frantic as Aziraphale tugged his waistband down, exposing the same angular expanse of hip that he’d marked on Gabriel.

How had he thought it a mercy? Crowley could have choked on his own hatred, for himself, for Aziraphale, for Gabriel, for holy water and fountain pens, for the situation that only kept getting worse and worse in ways that would challenge the imagination of Hell’s greatest tormentors.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, petting the demon with tender hands in an attempt to calm him. “But I must. Please, love, try to relax.”

“I can ‘member ‘em,” Crowley pleaded, his brain too muddled to realize that bargaining with Aziraphale was useless, if not dangerous. “Or...tattoo. No, angel-”

Crowley’s words slid into a thin, strained wail as the brush soaked in holy water began moving over his skin. Aziraphale held him, firmly but with a perverse sort of gentleness. “That’s it, love, you can manage. Just a bit more, you’re fine. I’ve got you, you’re alright.”

But he wasn’t alright. Although the drugs did dull the pain somewhat, or at least gave him some distance from its acuity, the sensation of holy water eating into his flesh was beyond excruciating, and even worse was the knowledge that it was Aziraphale, his angel, who held its instrument.

“Please,” Crowley sobbed, beating his weakened hands against the bed, “no, ‘ziraphllllll….no...”

“There there,” Aziraphale murmured as he drew lines of agony over Crowley’s hipbone, “it’s for your own good, love, just trust me. Lie back, there you are.”

He didn’t want to lie back, he wanted to fight, to get up and run out of there, to shove Aziraphale off him. But under Aziraphale’s strong hands, and the weight of the drug running through his veins, all Crowley could do was cry and whimper and wait for it to be over, not only the pain of the brush but Aziraphale’s cruelty wrapped in a care Crowley neither wanted nor accepted, the searing burn of holy water made all the worse by the sting of Aziraphale’s betrayal.


End file.
